


tempt me softly, keep me sweet

by wbtrashking



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Escort Service, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Versatile/Switch Characters, escort hannibal AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-01-05 04:08:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 48,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21207140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wbtrashking/pseuds/wbtrashking
Summary: When Will realizes that having sex with women is no longer satisfying, Beverly encourages him to consider having sex with a man—more specifically, with an escort.After spending one night with the oddly sleek and authoritative Hannibal Lecter, Will finds himself eager to request his services again. The older man is an enigma, one that Will can't get a good read on, but that's a good thing. He never has to pretend with Hannibal. He doesn't feel the need to fake his reactions.His budding addiction to Hannibal's company quickly spirals out of control. There'snoreason he should care for the escort so much, let alone so quickly; it's just his luck that he latches onto things and refuses to let them go.Will Graham never does things by halves.





	1. part I: meeting

**Author's Note:**

> this started off as a pwp concept that got wildly out of control, _holy shitttt_.  
  
many thanks to my pals les and chlo. they cheered me on to victory as i battled with this beast ♡  
  
***oct.28.2019: this story is complete. there'll be five (5) parts, each around 7-9k. updates on mondays.***  
  
✧tumblr: [**quillifer**](https://quillifer.tumblr.com)

Will isn’t usually this desperate.

Most Friday evenings, he flops down on his couch, pours himself two generous fingers of whiskey, neat, and stares into the middle distance. On his better days, there aren’t any coherent thoughts whipping around his head. He’s surrounded by the small, warm bodies of his dogs and their happy, wagging tails when he pats their heads obligingly. Other times, he’s plagued by his old life, by ghosts and whispers in the walls. Broken bodies, blood spatters, gunshots.

It’s been a long time since he’s had somebody in his bed.

That’s his own fault, of course. He’s practically become a recluse since taking up a position at the University of Maryland, Baltimore County. Moving had been a chore, going from Lutherville to the eastern part of Bowie, but he’d gotten a deal on a fixer-upper right after he’d signed on with the college. Better still, the house is within walking distance of the Patuxent River. Being around water has always settled Will in his own skin, even when it feels like his thoughts are unspooling out of his head.

He needs something to busy his hands with. He doesn’t feel like wandering around huge department stores to buy a puzzle, or getting new tools so that he can tinker with boat motors again. Will throws on a pressed, collared shirt he usually wears to work, a half-decent pea coat, and dark-washed jeans. Almost as an afterthought, he grabs a scarf from off of the rack by the door, says goodbye to his dogs and locks the door behind him, ambling off into the night, fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel of his raggedy old 2001 Volvo S80 Sedan.

Winding up in Baltimore is only half-calculated—there are better bars downtown than there are in Bowie, and a lot more diversity, besides. He’s not especially chatty, but he still knows how to spot a lonely girl looking for a hookup. There’s a certain knack to it, knowing that someone needs to get laid just as badly as he does, that they’re soft and pretty, easy to please.

Early twenties, olive-toned skin, busty, full lips, sad eyes. Hook, line, sinker.

He butters her up. Orders her a few drinks. He genuinely gets to know her—the key to this song and dance is telling the truth, for the most part. If he parrots a few of her gestures and lets some of his awkward mannerisms bleed out in order to let down her defenses, there’s no harm. They’re both going to get what they need out of this night, he’ll make sure of it.

They share another round, giggling, decreasing the amount of space between them. He gingerly runs a hand down her arm. She flushes. She invites him back to her place, which is for the best. His place is too far, and although he certainly wouldn’t have minded the hotel fee, it’s nice that he doesn’t have to worry about it.

Before long, they’re stumbling through the door of her apartment. Her black heels clatter to the floor within seconds. Soon they’re both flushed, lips locked, bodies entwined. Will sticks his hand up her skirt, relishing in the damp moisture he finds through the fabric of her underwear. He closes his eyes, breathes in her excitement, centering himself.

Even though he’d wanted nothing more than this the whole evening, something about finally getting it, how absurdly simple it had been, turns his stomach. He tries to lose himself in the ambiance; the young woman, Jessica, is working very hard to satisfy him. He _is_ reacting—physiologically, at least—but his heart’s just not in it. He fakes a few moans, chasing her pleasure, soaking it up like a sponge. It works well enough. _Her_ reactions feel honest beneath his fingertips, anyways.

Minutes of sweat and slick sensation pass him by in a void. He squeezes his eyes shut when he comes, but derives more thrill from feeling her heart racing beneath his chest when they lie down side-by-side, grinning sheepishly.

“You’re sweet,” Jessica murmurs, pushing damp curls out of Will’s face. “But I get the feeling that you want this to be a one-time thing.”

“Sorry,” Will whispers, conveying how sincere that apology is as he presses one last kiss to her cheek.

He isn’t good with commitment.

He’s not sure that he’s good with feelings, period. He can empathize to the limits of human capacity, but none of the bubbling contentment welling up in his chest feels like it belongs to him.

All Will feels is hollow as he shrugs his clothes back on, driving home to his little house in Bowie, feeling like another person has his foot on the gas pedal.

* * *

Beverly is Will’s only real friend. He has a couple other acquaintances he’d consider close, if held at gunpoint, but they’re not exactly the type of people he can eat sloppy cheeseburgers with while griping about the recent policy changes in Baltimore PD’s homicide department.

Or, in this case, that can pull the ugly truth out of Will while scarfing down piping-hot french fries.

“I mean, congrats on the getting laid. Long overdue, in my opinion,” Beverly mumbles, swallowing a gulp of soda before pointing at him. “But you don’t have that characteristic _refreshed Graham_ air about you; you have that _kill me, please_ look on your face. You know, the one where you look like someone kicked your dog.” After a beat, she adds, “Dogs.”

Will dramatically rolls his eyes. “It’s not rocket science, Bev. Having sex doesn’t magically solve all of your problems.”

“Solves a lot of mine,” she quips back, smirking at him.

He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “Good for you.”

“All I’m saying is, maybe you’re going about this the wrong way. You should try something new. Spice it up in the bedroom.”

The flat look Will levels at her could cut a tree down. “Sorry, what’s your plan for how I do that, exactly? Jump into Baltimore’s BDSM scene, begging to be spanked? I’m pretty fucking boring. I don’t need to get hit to get off. I got off last night. It just wasn’t…satisfying.”

“First of all, how do you know that you don’t like getting spanked if you’ve never tried it?” Will recoils. Beverly is the one to roll her eyes this time. “Don’t freak out, Graham, I’m just _saying_.”

After a long pause, Beverly heaves a great sigh, as if preparing herself to explain to Will that he has a terminal disease. His shoulders reflexively tense up when she speaks.

“Listen, Will. You’re my best friend.” He nods slowly, forcing himself to meet her eyes, reciprocating her brutal honesty with his best effort at open communication. He doesn’t need to confirm that the sentiment is mutual. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but have you considered that you might be bisexual?”

Whatever Will had been expecting Beverly to say, those words hadn't been anywhere near his radar screen. His neck straightens as he bristles. “What? No.”

Beverly groans. “See, you’re doing that thing where you retreat instead of thinking it through. It’s okay if you’re not ready to think about it today. I’m just saying, maybe you _should_ think about it.”

The rest of their meal passes in tense silence before Beverly dismisses herself, headed in for an evening shift at the precinct.

Several hours later, as Will stares at the ceiling, he begrudgingly admits that Beverly has a point.

One night stands with hourglass-shaped women that have high-pitched, tinkling laughs, who call him sweet, petting him like an animal when he’s finished helping them climax won’t do it for him anymore.

It makes something catch at the back of his throat—remnants of old, primal feelings he'd believed to be long buried. How much he'd wanted to fit in at school, how hard he'd tried be normal; the crushing fear of rejection. Then, he realizes he’s thirty years old, and honestly? He doesn’t give a shit about what anybody thinks.

Well, except for Beverly, since he’s obviously listening to her advice.

* * *

Will takes baby steps.

First, he looks at pictures of men—various ages, nationalities, fashion styles. It doesn’t do much for him, but then again, neither do vapid pictures of women he doesn’t know, splayed out in little-to-nothing for gravure shoots.

Then he moves onto softcore porn. Men necking, sweaty fingers gripping bulging thighs, rutting against each other. He can’t see himself doing what they’re doing, not exactly, but it’s not revolting. There’s still no marked difference from straight pornography, except that there are no breasts or vaginas involved. He’s never needed this kind of stuff to get off, anyways. His imagination is graphic enough.

He starts looking at guides on gay sex positions. It’s when he’s rifling through photographs and short videos that he finds something that catches his attention.

There’s a picture of a lithe man, not absurdly stocky, a dominant without the need of a crop in hand or someone kneeling at his feet. He exudes power, bracing himself against a man just a bit slighter than him. Not a twink, he thinks—Will is beginning to learn the lingo—but just two men, one of whom is clearly taking the lead in the situation, and he’s only doing it by adjusting his posture, narrowing his eyes.

Will can admit that the image is appealing. The stir in his groin goes so far as to say desirable, but he’s not going to stroll into a bar to find a man who’ll pin him to the wall, letting Will experiment on him like a horny teenager. For one thing, he’s way too old for that shit.

There’s only one thing he can do: phone a friend.

* * *

When they meet for lunch two weeks after her initial question about Will’s sexuality, Beverly drops a piece of paper with a list of websites on the table. “Didn’t wanna text it to you, in case you only browse incognito or something.”

“Spoken like a true officer of the law,” Will replies airily. Both of them snicker. “What’m I looking at?”

“Figured you wouldn’t want a hooker, because, well, y’know.” He somberly nods. Beverly continues. “Escort services. A couple of clubs. They have trial periods, in case you want to take a test run first.”

Will’s brow raises. “You think I’m picky enough to get an escort?”

“I don’t think. I know, Graham,” Beverly muses. “You’re thorough. Annoyingly so. If you’re going to experiment, you might as well hit up the best in the business.”

“Why, Katz, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were encouraging a retired cop to engage in prostitution.”

“They don’t promise to sell sex on their website.” She smirks. “All they promise is a great time, well worth the price-tag. Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

“Semantics.”

“Loopholes, Graham. Loopholes.”

Beverly directs him to what she believes is the most trustworthy homepage.

Will spends the evening trawling through it, making sure that the URL doesn’t pop up in any major news articles. After that check's completed, he trawls through profiles until he finds an agreeable face to go with a solid personality, at least on paper. He emails out an inquiry that could lead to a future appointment.

_Hello Hannibal_, Will types, thinking it must be a stage name. It’s too old-fashioned, and theatrical, besides.

_My name is Will. I’m new to this scene. I guess I’m what you’d consider ‘bi-curious.’ This is the first time I’ll be experimenting with a man. I understand if you’re not interested in fresh blood; I’m pretty old to be trying something new._

_I’ve read through all the fees and conditions on the company website. I’m happy to pay in cash up front. My bio is included below._

_Thanks for your consideration,_

_Will_

It sounds more like a business email than a click-n-stick arrangement, but Will reads it twice before he presses send, scared that he’ll back out if he doesn’t go through with it immediately.

He cooks dinner for his dogs, maintaining the pretense of a normal evening with trembling hands. By the time he marks up the seventh assignment on soil cultures and insect larvae, the alert for a new message in his personal email pops up in the top right corner of his computer screen. His spine straightens, eyes growing large.

It’s well past eight o’clock. Will only sent the message an hour ago. This Hannibal character must work hard to keep up with his clients, prospective or otherwise. Will swallows dryly, opening the escort’s response with baited breath. He’s not sure what he’s more nervous about, getting a positive response or a negative one.

_Hello Will,_ Hannibal begins.

_It is wonderful to hear that you are interested in broadening your horizons. It is never too late to indulge in new hobbies._

Will snorts at that. Considering sex a hobby is a stretch by most people’s standards; it’s a bit like calling professional sports ‘games.’

_I look forward to a potential liaison, if you are amenable. Next Friday, my schedule is rather flexible. I have a list of hotels attached below; they all have fairly private rooms and discreet, polite attendants employed. Although I do dabble in home visits, I prefer to have a first meetings in neutral territory._

_Regards,_

_Hannibal_

Will putters around for a bit, biting his bottom lip, pretending he’s going to do anything other than scroll through his phone to make sure his Friday night is free. His social calendar is of no concern—it’s the due dates he’s set for his class assignments and his personal research goals that he’s worried about. He ensures that there aren’t any reminders on his phone. All clear.

After clicking through Hannibal’s photographs and reading his profile for the fifth time, he resigns himself to replying.

_Next Friday sounds great. What time?_

Thus, Will has an appointment with a very expensive male sex worker, one with hazel eyes and a mischievous, crooked smile.

It’s almost pitiful how anxious he is to get it over with, if only to figure out if this interest is real, or to move on with his life.

* * *

The concierge is effusively courteous, just as Hannibal had promised. She personally guides him up to room 1205, sliding a key card into Will’s palm before stepping back into the hall, wishing him a pleasant stay.

Left alone to his own devices, Will is compelled to pick at himself, making an attempt at last-second grooming. He smooths down a few wayward curls, straightening nonexistent wrinkles in his shirt, examining his slacks for stray dog hairs.

When a soft knock sounds against the door, Will barely stops himself from jumping, mumbling for the room’s other intended occupant to come in.

Hannibal glides in, his gait smooth and sleek, fixing Will with inquisitive eyes, lips not quite pulling into a smile. “Will,” Hannibal confirms his identity; it’s not a question. It doesn’t have the breezy uncertainty of meeting with someone for the first time. Hannibal greets him like an old friend.

“Hannibal,” Will replies, his tone sharp. He can’t help it—he gets sour when he’s nervous. For better or worse, his sarcasm draws a fuller smile to Hannibal’s lips. That makes Will relax, if only slightly.

For a long series of minutes, Will finds himself out of his depth, simply studying the unknown human making himself at home in the hotel room. Hannibal isn’t an overly large man; he’s very fit. Neat, if Will had to sum it up in a word. Finely dressed, like _he_ should be the one paying for an escort service.

Whatever Will had been expecting before tonight, this isn’t it. Hannibal seems perfectly content to have Will eye him like a wary cat, lettin Will burn holes in him from across the room instead of rushing over to unbutton his client’s trousers.

Licking his lips, Will draws in a shaky breath, attempting to carry out a semblance of a conversation. “So, what’s the plan?”

“The plan is whatever you would like for it to be,” Hannibal replies. His voice is lightly accented and lilting; Will can’t quite place the accent’s origin. The overall effect is pleasant. Hannibal's cadence has the added bonus of carrying his cool honesty. When Will looks into Hannibal’s eyes, Hannibal holds his gaze steadily, quirking one eyebrow as if to say, _well?_

The words come tumbling out of Will’s mouth like wildfire. “I didn’t even. My friend was. This is—” With a huff, Will flops down on the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I’m being ridiculous.”

“It is difficult to face things that make us different, emerging with a sense of self-worth and accomplishment with our uniqueness, rather than feeling affronted, like an outcast.” Hannibal’s tone is dry, clinical. It’s easier for Will to ground himself to when all he wants to do is sail away, to drift off, stalwartly refusing to deal with his emotions. “Do you wish to terminate the session early? I’m afraid the hotel fees are out of my hands, but I won’t charge you for a service you do not intend to receive.”

Maybe it’s Hannibal’s sincerity. Maybe it’s the way that he truly doesn’t seem bothered by Will’s flighty behavior—that he doesn’t look at Will like he’s broken, or pitiful, or lonely, even though Will constantly feels like he’s at the edge of having a mental breakdown. Hannibal’s just here for one night. To show Will a good time. Will tries to explain himself again.

“I’m thirty, y’know. I’d gotten sort of set in my ways, but normal sex has been underwhelming. A friend told to me to consider that I might be bisexual. I might just be bored of women right now—I’m getting too old to pick up girls in clubs and bars—but more than anything, I’m terrified to fuck up new things. I just wanted a chance to see if this could give me that _zing_, or whatever.” Will shakes his head at himself. “Sorry. That’s a lot to unpack.”

“You should never feel the need to apologize to me for speaking your mind. Being candid with each other is one of the highest forms of art that humans can achieve. It displays a remarkable amount of trust, especially considering that I am naught more than a stranger to you.”

Will sits up, gathering all of his courage. “Could I maybe just touch you? I won’t do anything without asking first.”

“Would you like for me to undress? Or would you prefer to undress me?” It’s a question that Will has never been asked without a wet tongue slipping against his own. The laissez-faire tone that Hannibal says it in causes Will’s heartbeat to thunder in his ears.

“I’d like to, if that’s okay.”

Hannibal delicately sits on the bed beside Will, eyes roaming up Will’s form hungrily. Suddenly warm beneath the collar, Will coughs and gets to work, leaning over Hannibal’s chest to pick at the buttons of his vest. The angle’s all wrong, so he gets up on his knees and bows his head, curls threatening to fall into his eyes while he single-mindedly sets himself to the task.

The sensations are surreal despite their familiarity. A warm chest beneath Will’s own, coming unbound as he strips down layers of cloth, but the chest is flat, broad, muscular. Wiry, dirty-blonde hair forms a deep V pointing down to Hannibal’s still-clothed groin, the baby blue of his button-down sharp against the sun-bronze tone of his skin.

Will doesn’t realize that he’s longing for air until he presses the pads of his fingers into the soft skin of Hannibal’s abdomen. Disjointedly, he mumbles, “This still okay?” Hannibal nods, so Will keeps roaming, soaking in every detail as though it will fly away in the wind when he blinks.

He asks for permission again before toying with the zip of Hannibal’s slacks. This is it, really—the moment of truth. Neat black boxers encase Hannibal’s groin. The outline of a cock sits there in the middle of the cloth, obscene and ridiculous in one turn.

When Will drags the boxers down, Hannibal springs free. He’s not hard, not really, but he’s not completely flaccid. Will suspects the condition in his own pants is much the same. The air is warm between them. Nothing’s been overtly erotic yet, but this is just as illicit in its own way.

“It is fascinating, isn’t it? The way human eyes are drawn to the phallus. Turgid, pulsing, rigid. Does it disgust you?”

“No,” Will answers, throat dry. He’s startled by how much he wants to smell it—to taste it. The urgency of the desire scares him a little, so he stifles it. “Not as much as I thought it would have. Guess bi is looking pretty possible, huh?”

“There are very rarely black or white answers to questions of sexuality, Will. To feel attraction to men is one thing; to act on that attraction is another. Admiring the human form is not inherently bawdy. We are all comprised of shapes and angles. I am happy to hear that you seem comfortable with the notion, however, but not fully. There’s no need to rush.”

He doesn’t. He takes what must be the better part of an hour mapping out the planes of Hannibal’s body; his front, his back, all of his muscles absurdly well-defined. He has a spectacular ass. Will is once again shocked by the stinging mental image of plunging into it. Shaking that out of his head takes some doing. He spends several minutes trying to center himself so he doesn’t rut his half-hard dick against Hannibal’s thigh by accident.

When he’s done, he flops on the bed next to Hannibal, wrapping him back up in the shirt, underwear, and slacks. He doesn’t even know where to begin with the vest, so he just picks it up with a shrug. For the moment, Hannibal seems content to leave his gelled hair ruffled, abstaining from putting his last piece of clothing on, so they lie in bed together, breathing.

The silence is comfortable in a way that Will rarely finds when he shares a bed with a companion.

“I think I’d like to try more again. Soon. Not tonight. I’m actually pretty tired. I hope it’s okay if I sleep.”

“You’ve paid for your time. You may spend it however you like. Would you like for me to leave?”

Will eyes Hannibal blearily. “You don’t have other clients to take care of?”

“I generally don’t book more than one appointment in a day. One must dedicate themselves wholeheartedly to each person’s needs. This time has been devoted to you alone, Will.” Hannibal’s eyes have that wicked little glint in them, the one from his pictures. Will laughs. “A unique approach, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yeah, Hannibal. You’re certainly one of a kind.”

Then Will drifts off. In the morning, he tries not to dwell on the fact that it’s one of the best nights of sleep he’s had in a very long time.

* * *

Will is not particularly skilled at managing his time.

After that night at the hotel, waking up mere centimeters from the face of another man—a kind man, with sleep-rumpled hair and a deep, froggy voice, with a spattering of reddish-brown stubble on his chin—Will tries to distract himself.

Not from the bisexual element. That ship has long since sailed. He can lie to himself about a lot of things, but not about that. He can easily tick the box for _interested_ now, but the problem is, he still doesn’t want to try his hand in a new market, floundering about like a freak.

There is a simple solution. The most obvious one, in fact, but Will is avoiding it like the plague. In fact, he’s been avoiding it so much that the last few nights have ended with furious masturbation sessions in the bathroom before forcing himself to lie down, trying to sleep. It’s been like this for weeks. Three weeks, to be exact. Hannibal’s contact information taunts him from his computer.

Beverly notices, of course. Will keeps correcting the angle of his glasses. It's an old nervous tic he can’t seem to drop. She sighs in loving exasperation. “Paging Detective Graham. _Hello_? Planning on joining us here on earth today?”

“What?” His head snaps up. The fog drops for a moment.

“Nobody’s going to judge you for having a fun time, Graham. Just give the guy another call.”

Will wants to defend himself until he runs out of breath, but he doesn’t have any good excuses. “It’s a waste of money.” It’s not that he doesn’t have it, but he had grown up strapped for cash; old, nastily ingrained habits die hard.

“What are you spending those research checks on, hmm? Ground meat for your dogs? One spool of fishing wire a month? Hooks? C’mon, man, the last couple weeks, you’ve barely even touched your food.”

He feels pathetic and she knows it. “I don’t want to make a habit of it.”

Beverly claps a hand against his shoulder. “Then don’t. You’re just learning how to ride with training wheels on. You’ll take them off when you’re ready.”

_What if I’m never ready?_ Carefully, Will doesn’t voice that thought aloud as he slurps at his piss-poor excuse for a cup of coffee.

Typing out a message to Hannibal is ludicrously easy, in spite of how miserably he’s been avoiding the experience all month.

_Are you available next weekend?_

Once again, within an hour, Hannibal replies.

_Certainly. Would meeting at the same hotel as before be suitable?_

Just like that, it’s done. Will goes for a run to keep from facing the twinge of excitement building in his chest.

* * *

Will feels marginally more confident this time, knowing what to expect, at least vaguely. He reassures himself by thinking that people do this all the time: learning how to climb mountains, diving out of planes. He’s not quite old enough for a midlife crisis, but this feels like one, regardless.

Hannibal joins him a few minutes later, wearing a heather grey vest over a cream-colored shirt. The slacks are just a shade darker than the vest. Will, with his salmon-colored button-down on and his curls thoroughly tamed by hairspray, feels better equipped to meet the escort head-first.

“Hello, Will,” Hannibal greets, taking a seat on the lounge chair closest to him. “How have you been?”

“Alright,” he mutters back. He’s never been proficient at small talk. “I want to ask you some questions.”

“Feel free,” the taller man replies, spreading his hands magnanimously.

Fiddling with his thumbs for a time, Will clears his throat. “I want to be clear—I’m not interested in any of the stuff I’m asking about, for now. I just feel like you’re more qualified to answer, knowing your line of work. You can correct me if I’m wrong.”

Hannibal’s eyes crinkle in that odd way he has of expressing amusement without smiling. “I doubt that you are. You seem very observant, Will. Please, go on.”

“With kinks, y’know, spanking, choking, the works, I was just wondering. I come from a line of work where the lines blur a little, but I know consent and discussions are fundamental concepts in most of those relationships.” An image briefly jumps across his brain, of a scene gone terribly wrong, a dead body with ligature marks around the throat. Hannibal waits for him to slip free of that memory patiently, to actually ask a question, as he’d promised he would. “I guess, what I’m asking is, do you get requests like those often? If so, how do you remain in control of the situation?”

Hannibal mulls it over for a time, the bow of his lips becoming thin before he speaks. “I have experience with such matters going awry as well. Not under my supervision, you understand, but likely in situations similar to yours. My previous career often brought me face to face with the cruelties of humanity.”

Will blinks at that, silently cursing himself. Of course Hannibal has another career or two under his belt—he looks easily five years Will’s elder, if not eight or nine, but he wears age well on his shoulders, like a shirt he’s grown into inch by inch.

“Not law enforcement?” The question slips out before he can stop it. He used to know all the high rollers in Baltimore PD. The other man doesn’t seem like a lawyer, for all his class.

Hannibal shakes his head, lips barely quirked upwards. “No.” After a moment, dark eyes roam away from Will’s face. “Back to your original question—I suppose everything is a matter of arrangement. Clients often bring this type of proclivity to the table. I am happy to oblige them, within limits. There are codes and signals we must use as equally consenting adults. As to the matter of retaining dominance, it is not something so easily explained.” When he licks his lips, Will finds himself doing the same, suddenly in need of a drink. “I work efficiently. Learning my partner’s rhythms, figuring out the best way to draw them out of their heads.”

Will’s skin prickles. Hannibal’s voice is still calm and level, but goosebumps are rising on his flesh as the other man speaks. It shouldn’t be so sensual, listening to him talking about this, but it is.

“Managing one’s tension, knowing the strength of one’s hands. Knowing that you can bring them to completion by bruising them, bursting capillaries, inhibiting airflow—it is an art form. One that I pride myself on mastering.”

The curly-haired man dry-swallows, uncurling his fingers against his thighs. “Do you enjoy that? Taking control.”

“I do not _take_ control, Will,” Hannibal purrs, “it is freely placed into my hands. I do not take advantage of such gifts.”

_Fuck_. Which is what Will would like to be doing right now, if he could turn his self-sabotaging brain off for a minute, throwing himself at Hannibal’s feet. Instead, his tongue darts out of his mouth unconsciously. “What do you think would help me get out of my head right now? In your expert opinion.”

His tone is snarky, but Hannibal doesn’t seem jilted by it, just loftily amused. Will is beginning to understand that it’s his running default, but it’s fine; his eyes are more expressive than his face.

“As mentioned in our previous session, the choice is yours. However,” Hannibal drawls, “I would certainly like to indulge the desires of your lower half, to see if the aesthetic interest that you have in the male form could culminate in an engaging physical reaction.”

Will barks out a humorless laugh. “You’re offering to blow me. To see if I’m gay.”

“Bisexual,” Hannibal smoothly quips back, using Will’s own term against him like a weapon. His lips are pulled up in a confident smirk. _Jackass_, Will thinks, vitriol suddenly coursing through his veins. “Not to see if you have the inclination, for that seems obvious, but rather to paint a pleasant image of what you may consider homoerotic sex.” He says the last two words like they’re dirt under his shoe. It both rankles and arouses Will. “You have received oral stimulation before, I assume. This will create a positive association between the male form and an experience that you have enjoyed in the past.”

The shorter man rolls his eyes. “That’s a lot of words to say that you just wanna see if I’ll like it.” Hannibal smiles. His openly conveyed mirth makes Will feel embarrassed. “Besides, women aren’t usually fond of blowjobs, at least not the ones I’ve been with. It’s mostly been messy. Time-consuming. The effort’s there; the enthusiasm. I can lose myself in those feelings, but that’s what got me into this mess in the first place. Pretending that their excitement was mine. It’s draining.”

“Pure empathy,” Hannibal muses softly, slowly encroaching upon Will’s personal space, eyeing him warily as if to ask, _is this alright?_ “A skill wielded as a double-edged sword. Capable of reflecting both the best and the worst of people, overloading your own brain with the feedback.”

Will whistles lowly, bristling a bit at being read so clearly by a man being paid to have sex with him. “Surprising insight for an escort.”

“It is a craft where being aware of another person’s mental state is a boon rather than a burden. Or would you prefer for me to bulldoze past your carefully-built barriers, to drive my tongue between your lips, automatically assuming that you would enjoy it?”

The cutting edge of Hannibal’s tone reveals to Will exactly how proud a man he is. That glimpse of humanity in the otherwise placid-faced escort makes Will chuckle. “You would never force anything on me. You don’t _take_—you wait until you’ve been begged for a kiss, waiting until you have your partner eating out of your palm. A closeted sadist, trussed up as an obedient companion.”

A flicker of heat creeps into Hannibal’s eyes. Will full-body shudders with the intensity of that look. “Shall you? Beg for it.”

Will’s livid about the implication that he should be the first to bend, to lose this game, but he’s also horny. This feels like a test. One that Will is determined to pass.

“Do it,” Will commands, throwing the weight of his frustration into the words. “Suck me off. Show me.”

_Show me that you’re not all talk_, he internally taunts. Hannibal kneels.

He works Will’s zipper open, taking a deep whiff of him, for whatever reason. Will’s sure the smell isn’t horrible—he’d showered before coming to the hotel, but that had been over two hours ago, considering the drive. He’s been with women in various states of cleanliness, a couple of them smelling overtly of booze or stale piss before he’d begun fingering them open; later, the stench of sweat would take over the entire room. He figures that his dick’s above sour cooch, but below daisies.

Long fingers run up the soft skin of Will’s bare thighs before Hannibal presses his thumbs into the waistband of Will’s undergarments, softly blowing on the clothed shaft. Will desperately wishes for a wall to appear behind him, legs wobbling at the very thought of having warmth pressed tightly around his cock, soon.

As if reading his mind, Hannibal helps Will slide out of his boxers, walking him backwards to the bed. Then, amazingly, he stops messing around, pressing his index and middle fingers to Will’s balls before swallowing him halfway down, so quickly that Will can’t fully follow the motion.

Swirling his tongue, hollowing out his cheeks; Hannibal works Will like he was born for this, taking him down further until his dick grows impossibly hard, probably choking Hannibal in its rapid shift. Hannibal keeps at it mercilessly, pulling back completely to tease the slit of Will’s dick with his right hand, fingering the foreskin gingerly. Will whines, the noise high-pitched and ardent. He clenches his fists on the comforter, parting his legs further when Hannibal draws himself closer, working relentlessly to bring Will to completion.

Right before Will’s eyes threaten to close, Hannibal rolls back on his heels, releasing Will with a slick pop. “Don’t go inside. Keep your eyes on me. Describe what you’re feeling.”

When Hannibal slides back into place, Will grasps at words. Language fails him, utterly. “It’s, fuck, you know it feels amazing. You’re really good at this.” Sweat rolls down his chin, over his stubble. He can feel it creeping down his back in rivulets. “You’re keeping yourself relaxed for me. I could probably go in deeper. Thrust down your throat, until you’re gagging on me. I’m burning up. You’re not drooling. I’m chalking that up to experience and, _Jesus_—" He cuts himself off when Hannibal increases the pressure against a prominent vein in his shaft, well-aware that precome is dribbling off of him. Hannibal laps it up without a problem, persistent in his drive. “It’s too much, it’s too tight. Your fingers. Your mouth. Your teeth, which you’re covering well, so well—_shit_.”

He comes. A lot.

Hannibal doesn’t spit; he doesn’t spill anything, either.

It’s disgusting. It’s titillating. Will could collapse, that’s how blissed out he is.

When he looks down at Hannibal, he realizes that he recognizes nothing of his partners of the past, covered in ejaculate, trying to tidy themselves up, happy that he’d come from their ministrations but sore-jawed and overtaxed from the effort. Hannibal just looks pleased, pristine. Will is jarred to note that the sense of relaxation, of floaty satisfaction, is all his.

Still, he’s never been one to just sit around on the receiving end. He's not selfish. “Can I do anything for you?”

Hannibal hums. “You came for me. That was more than enough.”

Flushing, Will turns on his side, closing his eyes. “Would you mind heading out early? I need some time to think.”

“Not at all. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” With that said, Hannibal floats out of the room as quietly and unobtrusively as he had entered it.

Will knows he’s going to be jerking off with the vivid memory of this night knocking around his head for a long time coming. The knowledge makes him groan. He throws a pillow over the back of his head, half-wishing that the sheets would swallow him whole, that he could choke himself to death in the cradle of fluffy absolution.

* * *

It’s easier the third time.

He knows he’s going to set up an appointment with Hannibal in a month, saying goodbye to five hundred dollars the week he gets paid, exchanging wits with the strangest man Will has ever met. Hannibal, exotically sharp-cheeked and disturbingly blank-faced, is interesting mostly because he works very hard to _seem _boring. He’s likely exceedingly wealthy, from old money. He’s probably retired early from a lucrative career. Now he’s engaging in sex work—_for fun_.

Wrestling with Will’s fits of inadequacy while he’s coming to terms with his burgeoning bisexuality is probably just a drop of water in the lake of Hannibal’s ridiculous life.

_Wanna do the usual next week?_

Predictably, Hannibal replies within the hour. Unpredictably, he has a new suggestion.

_I have seen the soft, worn material of your clothing. Though I cannot imagine that money is an issue for you, knowing the nature of our engagement, the grandiosity of the hotel seems as though it makes you anxious._

Once again, Will is startled by Hannibal’s insight. It’s amazing that Hannibal had called him observant—the older man seems to have noticed even the most minute details that Will has been working hard to keep under wraps.

_Perhaps it would be easier for you to engage with me on grounds that are more firmly yours. A hotel of your preference, or even your home. You are a private person. I understand if you would prefer not to have me in your sanctuary. It is merely something to consider._

_Friday would suit my schedule, as per usual._

_Regards,_

_Hannibal_

Frankly speaking, the idea’s not terrible, but maybe that’s what rubs Will the wrong way about his proposal. Then again, the thought of Hannibal here, standing in his pathetic excuse of a fixer-upper home on the outskirts of suburbia, warms his blood. He immediately becomes overwhelmed with thoughts of bending the older man over every cluttered surface in the kitchen, dining room. The brief image of having a tryst in his sprawling yard snags at the corners of his vision.

Will feels pathetic, like Hannibal has read him for filth. He makes a feeble attempt at considering the logistics of a meeting at a new place—someplace far from Baltimore where nobody knows them, with clean interiors, a homier feel—but the vision won’t settle into his bones, not like those first few flashes of carnality had. Possibly what had been so startling about his attraction to the concept had been the setting; Will doesn’t have a habit of bringing people here. It’s a mess. It’s filled with canines. He wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world, this little corner of the earth that he works so fiercely to hide from everyone else.

Which is why he wants to christen the place with bodily fluids. He’s been here almost two years, but he’s been living like a ghost in the walls, only stepping out of the crevices to restock the fridge once every week or two.

_Sure, that’s fine. The same time works for me._

_Don’t dress up too nicely. The décor is a lot like the clothes—soft and well-worn. You’re lucky I’m gonna clean the place up at all._

_See you soon,_

_Will_

As soon as that message is sent, Will realizes that he needs to make arrangements. He loves his pack of gentle-hearted rescues, but there’s no way he’s going to have six dogs yipping at his heels when Hannibal comes to visit.

With a groan, he realizes that no, it’s _seven_ dogs now. Just last week, he’d found a stray trotting down the road, taking him home, naming him Winston.

_What a mess._

He begins by calling Alana, who is something more than an acquaintance, but not quite close enough to be considered a friend. She’s a couple years older than him, but as an up-and-coming brilliant young psychiatrist, she’s met with her fair share of PTSD-ridden cops. For one reason or another, she’s seen him at his worst too many times. He’s toyed with the thought of kissing her plush, lipstick-red lips once or twice, but he's never followed through. She pities him too much; he can see it in her eyes.

Regardless, Alana is dependable, kind. He’s requested that she do this sort of thing before. She’s always been happy to oblige him. Will does not often ask people for help; she is more than willing to encourage such constructive, positive behavior. When she shows up on his doorstep, dressed to the nines, as is her wont, he offers her a shaky smile.

“Where are you headed?” Alana balances herself on pointed heels as she leans down, greeting the pack of well-trained slobber-machines.

He awkwardly shuffles his feet, staring at something in the kitchen, fighting down a blush. “Staying in, actually. Thanks for agreeing to watch them for the night.”

Dark lashes flutter as thoughts openly race across Alana’s face. Though Will can only see her out of his peripheral, he still feels patently ridiculous; the feeling only gets worse when she smiles. “_You’re_ having company? The famous recluse Will Graham? The apocalypse is nigh.”

“Oh, grow up,” Will grumbles, but there’s no heat in his words. Alana means well. “I’ll come get them in the morning.”

“Don’t rush on my account,” Alana muses.

They spend a few more minutes shooting the shit. Suddenly, Will becomes distressingly aware that he’s never asked about her personal life before. They’ve had something like counseling sessions in the past, trying to sort through his tangled thoughts, going so far as to examine his career choices out loud, especially when his nightmares had gotten out of hand. Alana had helped him acquire medical attention when it had become clear that the hallucinations had been the product of a _physical_ illness, rather than a psychological one. He can’t thank her enough for spotting the symptoms in time, saving his mind.

She notices his awareness and interest too; she seems proud of him. He’s not good at dealing with her open, raw affection. It makes him rattle off more information than he really intends to.

“I’ve been experimenting. With my sexuality,” Will blurts out when Alana mentions that she has a girlfriend now. He knows she’s had boyfriends before. “Did you always know?”

“That I was bi? On some level, sure,” Alana replies. “Consciously aware? No way. When I was teenager, I just wanted to fit in. I could never tell my friends that I found girls attractive. Even when I got to college, I never felt fully comfortable about it, but when I met Margot, I knew I didn’t want to be her _friend_.” Funny, that feeling—Will knows it intimately well. “That was six months ago, so it’s still a pretty new thing. I wouldn’t say that it’s normal yet, considering myself bisexual. Lots of people call me a lesbian because I’m seeing a woman. I guess that’s fair, but still. There aren’t many women whose company I’d appreciate in the same way I appreciate Margot’s, or who would tolerate my constant psychoanalyzing with such grace.”

Something about her words sticks to Will’s ribs. It reminds him that he’s clinging to the false sense of stability that these monthly meetings with Hannibal bring, but the foundations are moorings made of sand—this isn’t something that’s built to last. Just as Alana’s explained, however, Will can’t really see himself with another man. When, or if, Will stops paying for Hannibal’s services as an escort, he might fall back into his old routine with women, feeling miserable, knowing that he’s going to lose some fundamental part of himself. Succinctly put, there will likely be a Hannibal-shaped hole in his chest. The idea makes him nauseous.

He tries not to let his anxiety filter through too heavily as he sees Alana and the dogs off. He wants to be in a decent mindset for the evening. Cleaning helps distract him for a couple hours, as does driving to an upscale liquor store across town, asking an employee about wine recommendations.

His place doesn’t look terribly romantic when he’s done—he hadn’t stopped to buy flowers or candles. It’s decent and he’s aired it out, burning hickory wood chips in the furnace to warm the air. The chill of late spring is fading into summer, but the evenings are taking a bit longer to catch up to the muggy heat of the afternoons.

Will’s ears perk up at the sound of a car on the gravel outside. He looks out of the window to see a silver Audi pull to a stop. Hannibal knocks on the door, dressed casually at Will’s behest in khaki slacks and a maroon pullover. He looks deceptively soft. Will internally chides himself for wishing he could open his arms, pull the taller man in for a hug. “Come in,” he gruffly mumbles instead, opening the door, quickly averting his eyes before he says or does something he’ll regret.

Hannibal has a bottle of wine cradled in one arm. “I wasn’t sure you would be interested in imbibing, but I didn’t want to come empty-handed.”

Sheepishly, Will grabs his own bottle from off of the kitchen counter. “Mine’s probably not as good a pick as yours. I figured you for a wine person.”

Hannibal does that not-smiling thing he does, barely moving his lips, crinkling his eyes fondly. “What gave it away?”

“The accent, mostly,” Will dryly drawls, then smirks. “I guessed.”

Hannibal’s teeth peek through the small gap of his mouth. “Excellent conjecture.”

They pop open a bottle of Will’s wine, a soft red, before refrigerating Hannibal’s neutral, floral-bodied white. For a time, they simply chat about pleasant, safe topics—local happenings, philosophy, clothes, haircuts. It stays droll until they hit the end of the bottle. Finally, Will is carefree enough to throw himself into this mess for the third month in a row.

“Is kissing allowed? Or do you prefer not to do that with your clients?” He hesitates on the last word. It’s what he is to Hannibal, certainly, but Will is beginning to feel like they’ve established a rapport. It’s a dangerous feeling, that; he remembers walking the beat, running into men that had become with enamored with things that weren’t theirs to have. He would serve himself well to remember where the boundaries lie, to keep a measure of distance between himself and the escort.

“When one foots the bill, they reserve the right to choose whichever pleasures they would like to receive,” Hannibal replies loftily, swirling the dregs of his wine around in the bowl of the glass. “If you are asking for my personal inclination, I am amenable to the act of kissing. In some ways, we are often just alike, Will. I dedicate myself to the satisfaction of others, but in your case, I feel no need to pretend. You enjoy it—touching me. I enjoy touching you. It is a novel experience.”

“If I wanted to touch you more? Take things further?” Will knows he sounds pushy, demanding, even, but he _wants_, with a force he hasn’t felt in years. Maybe he never has, not quite like this. “I’m not experienced. It probably won’t be good. But it’ll be honest. I really want to know what you look like coming apart under my hands.”

It’s probably not the best way he could’ve put it, all things considered, but Hannibal gets the gist. If Will’s not mistaken, he seems inordinately pleased about Will’s shameful admission.

“Then I shall reward your courtesy with due respect,” Hannibal murmurs, putting his drink down to give Will his full attention. “Shall we take this to the bedroom, then?”

Instead of responding, Will stands up, leading the way. Hannibal trails behind him, his footfalls nearly silent. He’s well-practiced in making his steps light.

Will looks down at the recently-washed sheets of his bed and takes a seat, patting the space by his side, gesturing for Hannibal to join him. Belatedly, he once again realizes that Hannibal had the right idea about all this—he’s more confident here in his own territory.

Hannibal folds his legs, gingerly splaying himself out on the double. The bed isn’t quite large enough for the two of them, as they’re both around six feet tall, but it makes do. Will begins by mapping out Hannibal’s body over his clothes, trailing all the way down to his calves before coming up again, peeling the pullover and underlying crew neck off of him. When he reaches Hannibal’s belt, for some reason, he stalls.

Dark hazel eyes look up at Will without overt expectations. If Will stops here, Hannibal will politely slip back into his clothes, humoring him. What does it matter? He’s already received payment for his work. Besides, Will’s gotten this far before—why get cold feet now?

Drawing in a steadying breath, Will reels himself in, getting his brain back on the rails. The prong slips free of the hole; he unwinds the leather through the frame and the bracing loop. Another couple of swift movements release Hannibal from his trappings. His member is splayed out between his legs, lying there soft and pink, framed by dark hairs which have been trimmed, organized for the viewing pleasure of his clientele.

The first few touches are exploratory. It shouldn’t be this strange, touching another man’s dick, but it’s still a foreign experience. The weight of it in his hand surprises Will. There’s blood running through this organ, attached to a living, breathing man who's watching Will’s fingers roam over his body with steady breaths. He’s trusting Will not to take advantage of him, knowing that other people have decidedly done so before; being a sex worker can’t be pleasant all, or even most, of the time, even being one as costly as Hannibal.

Once he gains his footing, Will grabs the new bottle of lubricant that he’d purchased for this very occasion, trying things that usually work for him. Teasing the glans, rubbing his thumb down the length, forming a loose fist around the shaft, pumping slowly, taking his time.

Hannibal hisses through his teeth—it’s not a pained sound, but it can’t be great, so Will loosens his grip, changes his angle. Brow furrowed in concentration, he moves his fingers a bit, using his other hand to brace himself on the mattress, resisting the urge to roll his hips against Hannibal’s naked crotch. When Hannibal groans, Will’s heart kicks into high gear. He’s almost helpless against the rush, leaning forward to breathe into Hannibal’s languidly open mouth.

“You’re a quick study,” Hannibal says, the words reverberating through Will’s chest where they’re nearly pressed together, their lips touching when Hannibal purses his for the plosive ‘qu’ sound.

“Better at kissing than perfunctory hand jobs,” Will breathlessly replies.

“Show me,” Hannibal teases, echoing Will’s words from last month with his unfairly plush mouth, his uneven smile forming more laughter lines around his eyes.

Driven by the challenge, Will brutally charges forward, using his free hand to bare more of Hannibal’s throat while they slide their tongues together. He utilizes all of his skills, pulling at Hannibal’s lips with his teeth, humming into the kiss, adjusting his angle while his fist glides over the older man’s cock with an obscene squelching sound. Pulling back for air is just as impossible as stopping himself from getting Hannibal off—both of them keep moaning so brokenly that Will is starting to lose track of which sounds he’s making.

It’s wet; filthy. Will feels high as a kite and hard as steel. His stupid lizard brain keeps whispering, _sex, sex, sex_, like the chant alone will somehow encase his needy dick in a warm body.

Hannibal’s eyes flutter closed, exhaling out a soft _yes _as he comes. Music to Will’s ears.

He flops over on his side, staring at viscous ejaculate as it drips down his palm.

After a moment or two of stunned silence where the two of them acquire some much-needed oxygen, Hannibal slyly whispers, “Would you like for me to lick them clean?”

Turning furiously red, Will leans over Hannibal to grab a box of tissues, swatting off the mess in a hurry. “No thanks.”

“Mm,” Hannibal knowingly hums; Will right decides then and there that he’s going to die simply from the humiliation of continuing to call upon this man.

The rest of the evening is fairly peaceful. Hannibal repays the favor with vastly superior manual stimulation. It makes Will feel competitive. He’s going to practice for next time.

Gloomily realizing that it might be another four weeks before he sees Hannibal again, he leans back against the sweat-stained pillows, sighing. “I’m sure your rate for weekly visits is annoyingly expensive, isn’t it?”

To Hannibal’s credit, he looks genuinely surprised by the question. His guileless expression makes Will feel like an asshole. Hannibal must have believed that Will had found him somewhat unsavory, like a guilty pleasure instead of a genuine treat.

“Typically, you would be correct.” Eager affection unfurls in Will’s chest. He feels like he’s burning alive under the intensity of Hannibal’s expressive gaze. “For you, however, I would be willing to make an exception. Let us keep the pricing the same—five hundred a month. Would you be amenable to weekly meetings instead, for the time being?”

Will is flattered beyond belief, but remorse still nags at him. “That’s a steep price cut. I can’t put you out like that.”

“You aren’t putting me out of anything,” Hannibal assures him. “This line of work is something of a hobby for me. You are easily the most upstanding, enjoyable client I have ever had. It would please me greatly to see you more frequently. Do we have a deal?”

He puts out his hand. Will squeezes it with a sheepish smile. “Alright. Deal.”

For some reason, it feels like he’s signing his soul away for sex.

The thought doesn’t bother him nearly as much as it should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✧tumblr: [**quillifer**](https://quillifer.tumblr.com)


	2. part II: embrace

“Pay attention to the where the eggs of certain classes of Lepidoptera are lain. Knowing which adult butterflies have prominent identifying markers on their wings is extremely useful in the field. One can often glean this information from the fauna where they deposit their clutches. That's all for this week. Feel free to email me with any questions.”

That said, Will watches most of his students file out of the room. A couple of the brave ones stand around the podium to clarify things from textbook readings or previous lectures. Talking to them is stifling, to say the least. He all but runs to the research lab as soon as he’s finished. Price and Zeller, two of the older professors, are bickering amongst themselves about one thing or another when he arrives—nothing new there. Will keeps to himself at the university. His coworkers aren't exactly his biggest fans.

His badge is growing dusty in some corner of his house. He misses the BPD Homicide Department a lot. He misses making a difference. Saving lives.

He doesn’t miss the nightmares.

Shaking the cobwebs out of his head, he distracts himself by flipping through his phone. After he and Hannibal had arranged to meet up more frequently, they’d exchanged numbers. Will had given out his last name automatically. Hannibal had reciprocated by doing the same. Fondly recalling the exchange, Will smiles.

“Hannibal Lecter?” 

Hannibal had been mildly amused by Will's shock. “I can see that you don’t believe that to be my given name.” 

“No, it’s fitting. Ridiculously so. You use your real name on the job?”

“Why should I hide?” He'd smugly replied. It's such a pity that Will admires his haughty nature. “I am not ashamed of what I do with my free time.”

That night had devolved into unorganized, youthful groping and a round of intercrural sex, where Will had come between the tight crevice of Hannibal’s athletic thighs. To prevent himself from getting aroused at the thought again, he glances at his emails, looking for anything he should urgently respond to. He’s interrupted from his annoyance with college students by the phone ringing.

His heart fills with dread when he reads the ID at the top of the screen. It’s Jack Crawford, an acquaintance-come-pest. Some days, Will can’t stand the man. Others, he knows that he’d call Jack if he were stranded in the middle of nowhere, fully aware that Jack would drive for miles to pick him up. He's a fair-weather friend, the kind who only reaches out when he needs something, but he’s loyal.

“Graham speaking.” He puts on his matter-of-fact police officer voice with Jack. They have a no-bullshit policy with each other.

“Let’s meet for lunch tomorrow,” Jack says, equally to the point. Will figures the date's fine. He doesn’t have any previous obligations.

“Should I bring a pen and paper?” Will’s tone is sardonic at best, scathing at worst.

“Yes.” Jack then abruptly ends the call, leaving Will blinking into the distance, heaving a weary sigh.

* * *

Will and Jack are experts at playing friends with each other. Jack, a burly, sun-weathered man, is going gray, to no one’s surprise. Being the head of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit would take the wind out of anyone’s sails.

They spend a few minutes going over trivialities. Jack asks about Will’s dirt and insect research. Will asks about Bella, Jack’s wife. When Jack hesitates, Will frowns. “Something wrong?”

It’s rare for Will to see the other man looking anything less than self-possessed. He’s stepped on a landmine. “She’s fine,” he gruffly replies.

Awkward silence sprawls between them for a time. After a minute or so, Will tries again. “Family problems. I get it. Yours or hers?”

“I didn’t come here to talk about my wife, Will.” _Of course not_, the younger man thinks bitterly. Jack reaches into his briefcase for a file that’s probably not supposed to be outside of Quantico, pushing it across the table. Will slowly adjusts his glasses, stalling for time. “Have a look.”

“No.”

There’s a tense pause before Jack rifles through his bag once more, pulling out a checkbook and a pen. If Will thought grabbing the pen out of his hand would stop Jack, he would. It won’t. “I’m willing to pay.” He carefully pulls the check free from the perforated edge of the book’s spine. $500.00, the little box reads, with the same denomination written in longhand off to the left.

“Jack,” Will does his best to force stern exasperation out in his voice, but he just sounds exhausted. “There’s a reason I didn’t accept the offers from the FBI—the Academy’s, _or_ yours.”

“This is off the books, Graham. Don’t give me that look. I’ve already asked all the hard-hitters in the business for a consult. Profilers from Georgetown, Harvard, Stanford, you name it. I’ve got the best and the brightest working on this case, but nobody’s got hunches half as good as yours. Just give me _something_.”

Will doesn’t need the money. He also wouldn’t say no to a few extra dollars. Something, or rather, someone, is burning a hole through his previously-untouched savings account. Doing errands for Jack Crawford isn’t worth it, but he knows Jack is stubborn. Refusing to take the check wouldn't do a damn thing to deter him.

Thus, he folds it and sticks it in his breast pocket. There's no sense in offering up his hard-won independence from this shit for free. “Give me a few minutes.”

“Sure.” Jack stands up and roams around. The restaurant has a bar, so Jack pulls up a seat, busying himself with coffee and snacks until Will is ready to talk to him again.

It’s odd to look at these sorts of pictures in broad daylight, in public. Luckily, there’s only two other people in the place. They’re far away from Will’s table. He sinks into the photographed worlds with exceptional focus, willing himself to see through the victims’—and the killer’s—eyes.

There are four bodies with physical dates printed on them. April 16, 2010. June 28, 2010. August 9, 2010. The most recent photograph is only three weeks old: June 5, 2012. It isn’t often that Will feels awe while looking at crime scenes, but these are so meticulously crafted that Will has to admire the sick bastard for his dedication, if nothing else.

All four of them are posed dramatically, like old paintings on church ceilings. Will’s not especially versed in art history; he isn't able to identify styles by name or era. Incorporating this amount of detail from the gallery-hung productions of the old masters would require a careful hand and a keen eye. Someone like a sculptor or a cosmetologist. Reading further through the case files, he finds the words _technically-proficient pre-mortem __organ removal_, expounding on his previous assumption—possibly a former surgeon, pathologist, or another type of medical professional.

He scribbles on his notepad, writing down the requisite information. Statistically likely to be a middle-aged white male, aged 30-50, experienced killer. These aren’t the acts of a fumbling virgin, trying out something new. He’s just decided to share his compositions with law enforcement in the northeast.

Gathering himself, Will rolls his shoulders back, calling Jack back over. “I don’t know that I can offer you anything new. It’s not easy when it’s on paper. It’s easier when I’m there.”

“You know I’d prefer to have you in the field,” Jack grouses.

“_No_,” Will bites back. This time it sounds as acrid as he’d intended for it to sound before. “You’re lucky that I’m not going to report you. This is new ground, Jack. Your guy’s bold. He’s not afraid of getting caught.”

“Talk to me.”

Will fights the urge to roll his eyes, drawing in a deep breath before explaining himself. “The organs were removed when these people were still alive—he’s an extreme sadist, then. It doesn’t seem like a sexual thing. No semen, no saliva, no bite marks, no violations. He’s organized, he’s methodical. There’s probably nothing linking these victims together, right?”

“Yes.”

“How long did it take for the BAU to notice the pattern? This is obviously the work of one perp.”

Jack raggedly runs a hand down his face, world-weary and dog-tired. “These files just crossed my desk on the twenty-fifth. Young officer with a good memory thought she’d seen something like it before. Last month, the FBI was officially given jurisdiction. I’ve been playing catch up ever since, but our best chance to nab this guy is during this cycle.”

“He doesn’t leave evidence. He’s too neat for that.”

“Fickle as a cat.”

Will huffs. “What do you want me to say, Jack? I’m not a magician. He’s got a steady hand. He sees himself as an artist. He’s taking trophies. It’s all textbook.”

Jack holds his gaze for so long that Will is forced to look away before he bares his teeth defensively. “How do you see him, personally? Is he a psychopath?”

As he had walked in the steps of this killer, trying to see the scenes as this murderer had, all he can envision is elevation. Craft. Taking something so insignificant as a life and turning it into his masterpiece. That’s what he haltingly tells Jack. “I don’t know. He’s not insensitive. He’s pouring his heart and soul into this portfolio, but he doesn’t feel remorse over the lives taken to create it—these people are _beneath_ him. He thinks he’s doing the world a favor by getting rid of them. That’s all I’ve got.”

Standing up and shrugging on his blazer, Jack offers Will a grateful nod, clapping the pale man on the back before storming off.

Will leans back in the booth once he's alone. Then, he stares at the ceiling for the better part of an hour, leaving the server a generous tip for wasting some much of her time when he finally departs.

* * *

He can’t ask Alana to watch his pack every weekend, so Will finally warns Hannibal about the dogs. Hannibal accepts Will’s eccentric nature with grace, as always, even offering to bring them treats.

It feels like a date. A date he’s footing the bill for, but a date nonetheless. Nausea roils up in Will’s gut. That sick feeling isn’t abated by thoughts of four people lying dead in open fields like trussed up dolls, organized for local citizens to stumble upon and freak out over. He distracts himself with preparations for his not-date, grooming his curls and facial hair to the best of his ability.

Hannibal arrives with a small bag in which he’s ensconced a bottle of wine, a home-brewed growler of beer, and a string of hand-ground seasoned sausages. “I fancy myself as something of a home chef. Hopefully these will suit their palates.”

“Jesus, you’ll spoil them,” Will mutters, flushing with fondness for the strange man. People always look at him with open sympathy written in their eyes when he mumbles that he keeps a house full of mutts. Seven dogs is too many for most, but to be fair, Will does train them exceedingly well. “Do you have any hobbies that you don’t throw all of your energy into?”

“What would be the point of doing things half-heartedly?” Hannibal asks, flashing Will a sly grin. Will’s lips rise in response, catching some of his infectious good humor.

They crack open the beer and wine, settling themselves in the living room. They both know where this night leads, which means there’s no need to rush. By now, Will has picked up more information about Hannibal—that he used to be employed at a hospital, that he'd been some sort of doctor. He adds the bit about the cooking to his mental repertoire, now, along with the home-brewed booze. Hannibal seems to keep himself exhaustingly busy. Will doesn’t know how the other man manages to stay so serene through all the madness.

Similarly, Hannibal has picked up tidbits about Will’s past—that he’d previously been involved in law enforcement, that he now researches topics relevant to forensic biologists. They share a fondness for science and nature, so it’s easy to ramble about things that most people consider mundane.

Will knows that he’s getting too comfortable, but he can’t help it. He hasn’t been this relaxed around anyone else in a long time. Hannibal has turned out to be quite a dutiful friend, regardless of the fact that Will has to pay for the pleasure of his company. He can see why people get addicted to this sort of thing.

One tangent leads to the next. Will finds himself rambling. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How things creep up on you. I’ve always been the weird kid, the odd one out. Being attracted to men isn’t that big a deal compared to other shit I’ve done.”

“For example?” Hannibal’s lips curl around the wine glass, parting for a small sip of the Pinot Grigio.

“I’ve killed someone.”

Admirably, Hannibal doesn’t even bat an eyelash. Will’s shoulders sag with relief, happy that Hannibal doesn’t hate him for this admittance, but they tense up again when the older man suddenly replies, “I have as well.”

Will’s breath catches in his throat. Hannibal keeps smiling at him placidly, so he can finally release a tight sigh. “An accident at the hospital, I’m guessing. What kind of doctor were you?”

“A surgeon,” Hannibal replies. Will can see that. The older man has an unaffected air about him, a detachment from typical worldly values that would suit such a profession. As soon as the title comes out of his mouth, one more piece of the escort’s puzzle slides into place. “I worked on a trauma ward for ten years. To be entirely truthful, four lives were lost under my hand.”

“Those deaths weren’t your fault.” Will leaps to his defense. Hannibal fixes him with a wry look. He’s probably heard those words dozens of times. Having them repeated wouldn’t help, Will knows. “Besides, that should be some kind of record. Only four people in ten years?”

“I was very talented at my job.”

Will doesn’t doubt that.

“My point is, you didn’t _mean_ for those people to die. It’s the lack of intent that makes all the difference. Me, on the other hand.” Will punctuates the sentence with a series of hand gestures before polishing off the last of his beer.

Hannibal puts his glass down, steepling his fingers together in his lap, waiting Will out patiently. “It was self-defense, surely? A deadly force encounter.”

“Yeah,” Will mutters. “But I was the one who made the call, who pulled the trigger. I didn’t shoot to wound. Hell, I shot the guy in the chest. More than _once_.”

“We humans are not as removed from our barbaric ancestors as we would like to believe. When faced with a situation where our own lives are at stake, our brains override reason. Our bodies leap into action, doing things that we become consciously repulsed by when the adrenaline rush recedes. Your actions were driven by a natural desire for self-preservation. You should feel no shame about the matter. Is that incident what lead you to retire?”

“Not right away,” Will replies somberly, darkly musing about the past. “I got a commendation for that, actually, and a promotion.” He’d been abjectly furious about it at the time. Government officers were the only people legally permitted to murder someone in the name of the law, and then have those in leadership be audacious enough to _reward_ said performance. “All’s well that ends well, I guess.”

“I cannot say that I am entirely sorry for this happening to you, as your circumstances led to this moment between us. You extracted yourself from a situation that made you miserable, that could have easily put you in a position to fight for your life again, even killing another person in the heat of the moment without your full awareness. I, too, have moved on to greener pastures.” Hannibal offers Will a beatific grin, his teeth a little crooked when he bares them, running a hand down Will’s arm teasingly. It’s disgustingly endearing. “May our pleasures in this life never be inhibited by specters of the past.”

That said, the two of them amble up to the bedroom, a chorus of animal whines trailing behind them as Will pulls the door closed.

The barriers are few between them today, both physical and metaphorical. Hannibal’s dressed down. Will’s a barely-held-together mess, as usual, but gravity feels heavier between them, like they’ve rolled around on the mattress already, the promise of sex clouding the air.

“Hannibal,” Will begins, mouth papery dry, “are you ever going to fuck me?” The older man opens his mouth, and somehow, Will knows the requisite words Hannibal plans to say; he doesn’t want to hear them. He puts his hands on Hannibal’s sharp-boned cheeks, maintaining steady eye contact. “Don’t tell me to ask you for it. Don’t put everything in my hands. I’m asking you a question—do you want to?”

The taller man blinks unhurriedly, sensually drawing his tongue across his lips. “You are an enticing creature, Will. The idea has merit, certainly.”

Will growls, digging his nails into the skin of Hannibal’s nape. “Just answer the question.”

To punish him for his insolent behavior, Hannibal fixes Will with a flat stare, ruthlessly drawing out all of his words. “Bringing you to climax in such a way would be an honor, viewing you unrestrained in all of your glory. Whether you seek said glory from within the confines of my body, or I if were to draw it out of you via penetration, I will be satisfied to bear witness to such a moment.”

“Stop stalling.” Regardless of his petulant tone, Will’s dick stirs in his boxers, interested.

“Yes, Will. I would very much like to _fuck_ you,” Hannibal finally says, clicking his tongue loudly on the plosive ‘ck’. “Some men are terrified of the idea of being breached. The sensation can be intense and odd to adjust to, especially when a man is used to being the one to penetrate a woman.”

Blue eyes narrow with sudden, sharp fury. “You’ve been shying away from having sex with me because you think I’m scared to take a dick up my ass?”

“_You’ve_ been shying away from having sex with me because it makes you skittish, knowing that I could bring you to a climax beyond your wildest dreams, using a channel of your body that has never before been touched during intercourse.” Will swallows hard at that, tracing the languid motions of Hannibal’s lips like he’s the escort’s devout worshipper. “Furthermore, the idea of being treated gently and with care in the bedroom makes you snappy.” Hannibal looms over Will, forcing the shorter man to lean back on his sweaty palms, glaring to hold his ground. “I don’t want to treat you like fine china, Will. You deserve more than that, but I’m not going to force you outside of your comfort zone. If we do this, we shall discuss the terms like adults.”

Will would like nothing less. He’s not a fan of verbal sparring or negotiation when he’s horny. “Should I write up a contract, too?”

If Hannibal were anyone else, he’d be rolling his eyes, but instead, he has a softly fond, lightly-peeved look on his face, as if to say, _oh, you_. “My proposition is simple. If you are interested, I can lead you through the act of anal stimulation, freely offering my body as a guide. You may penetrate me as well, if you wish. We'll take things slowly. I have the utmost faith in your abilities. It is not lack of courage that has kept us from doing this before now. Your anxiety levels are high; you constantly dread that people will think less of you if you’re not perfect. Rest assured that I find all of your imperfections most delightful. Ironically, those qualities that you perceive as flaws serve to make you a much more brilliant, capable man.”

The air feels like it’s been stolen out of Will’s lungs. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to compose himself. “You don’t have to flatter me,” he finally mutters, blinking up at Hannibal through long lashes. Somehow, in the span of a few minutes, he’s gone from feeling smothered by Hannibal’s brazen immediacy to wishing he was closer. “I’m a wreck. A man _paid_ to entertain me is trying to convince me that I’m not too chicken to go through with this. You’re too polite to tell me to grow a pair and get it over with.”

Hannibal shakes his head, grabbing Will’s left hand to gingerly press his lips to the knuckles. “I merely wish to earn your trust, help you build your confidence. All of these feelings are new for you. I want to respect your space, to give you an adequate amount of space to process every new impression.” The light in Hannibal’s eyes feels dangerous for a flicker of a second. It makes Will shudder, seeing the raw lust and delight plain in his eyes. Just like that, the heady, expectant atmosphere descends upon them again. “What do you say to my entreaty?”

Growling from the back of his throat, Will adjusts their positions, swinging one leg over Hannibal’s lap and holding his gaze. He angles for his tone to come off as pleading, but knows that it comes out hopelessly commanding. “Don’t let me screw this up for us.”

“Believe me, Will,” Hannibal purrs, “I would never do something so tasteless.”

Will feels like he’s moving through syrup as he pulls off Hannibal’s clothes, wasting no time in getting at his lower half. His brow furrows in concentration.

“The glans,” Hannibal hums, the words thick on his tongue, focusing his energy on the task of instructing Will through the procedure. “The head of the penis, if you rather. Put your thumb at the crest, right over the opening for the urethra.”

Chuckling at the clinical language, Will teases him. “Your dirty talk is a bit sterile, Dr. Lecter.”

“My student has a preference for dry wit and objectivity,” Hannibal replies. Will offers him a wobbly smile for that quip. “Put your thumb on foreskin, pushing it lightly up and down the shaft. The tactile receptors running through this organ are exceptionally sensitive. I’m sure you can surmise what sort of reaction this will draw from me, as you’ve performed manual stimulation on my person before.”

Will licks his lips, remembering instances in the past where he’s made Hannibal’s toes curl by using his hands. With medical terminology floating in and out of his ears, it’s easier to stay grounded in this moment, forgetting what comes next. His only goals are to listen, to explore.

“Reach for the lubricant, please,” Hannibal orders. Will’s hand moves almost of its own accord, flipping the cap open, spilling gel over his fingers. “Now, feel for my perineal region. Just past that, you'll find the tight, puckered sphincter of my anus.”

Internally, Will’s brain flashes through responses. _Shit_, first of all, heart hammering in his chest intensely as he stares at Hannibal’s ass, thinking that it’s there, it’s so close, that he’s been authorized to touch it. That he could be _in it_ very soon. Secondly, he thinks, _Showoff._ Thirdly, _Who does this? Who talks like this? Is any of this even real?_

As if reading those last thoughts directly off of his brain, Hannibal reaches for Will’s wrist, whispering a directive to the younger man. “Stay with me, Will.”

He closes his eyes and inhales, centering himself. Then, he shyly wiggles his index finger into Hannibal’s ass, exhaling steadily. Although he hates to admit it, Hannibal had been right earlier—there’s no way he could’ve handled being spread out and vulnerable like this. Not tonight.

Once he gets over his initial apprehension, it isn’t so different from stroking a woman open. It's a little tighter, perhaps, but similar in its clamp against the digit, in the mind-numbing, searing heat.

“Feel the walls of this cavity—they are not as viscous as vaginal lining.” Hannibal opens his legs to give Will more space. The younger man nearly chokes at the obvious invitation. When the words register, Will fumbles over himself like a newborn fawn to grab more lube, removing his finger to slick up the surface of the skin again. “It’s been some time since I’ve been prepared by someone else. Usually, I take care of this business by myself, as it takes a keen and patient hand.” Hannibal’s amber eyes are warm as he smiles reassuringly up at Will. “However, there’s no need to be exceedingly gentle. I am not breakable. I’m experienced enough to take another finger. Try it.”

Sticking his tongue out, absorbed in his effort to make this enjoyable for Hannibal, Will takes the older man's words into consideration. The pressure of Hannibal’s hole keeps distracting him. His own jeans are getting disruptively tight, too.

“Another,” Hannibal murmurs, eyelids fluttering closed. “Curl your digits. Feel for the very slight protrusion of my prostate gland. _Yes_,” the escort hisses deliciously, his sharp inhale the only sign that the ministrations are having an effect on him. “This gland plays a crucial function in the sexual response cycle. Look, Will. Do you see?”

Squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of stimuli, Will grouses. “Christ, can you give me a minute?” He's so overwhelmed. He feels silly, like an overreactive teenager about to come in his pants just from the thought of getting his dick wet. Once he’s calm enough to do as Hannibal has requested of him, he opens his eyes again.

Precome is rolling down the length of Hannibal’s shaft. Will’s heart accelerates rapidly, much to his frustration. Arousal rolls through his body in a wave.

“How does it feel?” Hannibal asks, voice ragged.

“Like I could get addicted to this,” Will replies. He momentarily retreats, much to their mutual disappointment, sloppily shucking off his clothes. Once he’s naked, he dives back in, flushed and eager for further direction. “Do your legs hurt?”

“I am in the habit of stretching regularly, maintaining a thorough exercise routine,” Hannibal says. “One’s body is a temple, or so they say.”

Will raises an eyebrow at the turn of phrase. “You know a lot of people putting churches up for sale to the highest bidder?”

Laughter rumbles through the older man’s chest. Will can’t help cradling Hannibal’s jaw as he speaks. Will wants to feel the stubbled skin there, to feel Hannibal’s bones moving; it makes this absurd situation seem tangible. “Many more than you can imagine. After all, think of how many people are desperate to sell the word of God to the masses. Chapels are currently at a premium. As a lowly realtor with a humble monastery, all I can do is ask a price that suits my needs, do my part to keep the place well-kept, and be very critical of who I let kneel at the altar.”

The younger man chortles. “Your sense of humor is awful.”

“We have that in common,” Hannibal jibes back. Without further ado, Will kisses him blind.

He is an expert kisser. It’s safe territory—fingers grasping hair for purchase, chests glimmering with sweat as they rut their cocks together. The only new addition for them is Will’s fingers toying with Hannibal’s hole, which is now obscenely slippery with lube, flushed from being pried open so avidly.

After Will starts spreading his fingers, Hannibal moans down Will’s throat, clutching at Will’s hips, bucking to gain more friction. “The choice is yours, per your command. How shall you finish me?”

Even with spit-shiny lips and a sorely rigid penis arching up towards his belly-button, Hannibal still looks so absolutely, infuriatingly in control. Will wants to drain that arrogance out of his pores, to soak up some of Hannibal's essence, to wear it like cologne. It’s the first time he’s willingly _wished_ he could walk into someone’s mind and become them, if only for an hour or two. The fact that he can’t do that with the escort is both frustrating and horribly titillating.

Still, he’s not completely useless at theatrical mimicry. He can steal some of Hannibal’s airs, his mannerisms, make them his own. “I want to see you—the _real_ you, underneath all the fancy words, under your ‘obliging escort’ façade. I want to see if you’ll retain your sense of supremacy when I’m pounding into you, if you’ll let the veil drop this time.”

Hannibal offers him that pointy, wicked little smile that Will is beginning to adore. “I encourage you to try your best, then.”

At that challenge, Will growls, pouring so much lube on his dick that it spills onto the sheets, disregarding the fact that the gel is cold and tacky as it slides down his thighs. He picks up Hannibal’s densely muscular legs, lining himself up before pressing in, his sight nearly whiting out at first contact.

There’s no sense of guiding, leading, following, or instruction anymore. This is pure, carnal fucking at its finest. Will feels like he’s high as a kite. Time slips away. He might not be an expert at male intercourse, but he’s had sex plenty of times. The rhythm of this part is always the same.

Angling his cock to slam into Hannibal’s prostate takes some doing, but he does it once, hearing Hannibal howl with pleasure as if through a haze. He throws more of himself into the next thrust, panting into Hannibal’s neck before licking at the skin there, desperate for more contact, more heat, more _anything_.

“Tell me what you're thinking about right now,” Will says, putting one hand against Hannibal’s shoulder for leverage, using the other one to bruisingly fist his partner’s penis.

“How much trust I'm placing in your sensibilities. You're doing quite well. Also, I'm elated by this new method of physical unity we're undertaking. My body is quite sore already, so I can only imagine how I’ll feel in the morning,” Hannibal replies, his voice low, phrases occasionally broken by small hitches in his breath. “The pain runs adjacent to the pleasure, as I’m being filled to my utmost capacity by you at every turn. Your tongue, your breath, and your member are warm inside of me, carving a space out of my body to call their home.” His eyelids flutter on a particularly brutal snap of Will’s hips. “You appear to be temptation itself. How does a mere mortal say no to that?”

Will groans. “You’re insane. This isn’t healthy—not for me, and definitely not for you. You have to know that.”

Hannibal throws his arms around Will’s neck, pulling the other man down into an uncomfortably tight embrace. Sweat drips down his cheeks as he grins, his pupils blown wide, looking for all the world like a delightfully feral cat. “Then what does that make you, a man so desperate to bend me to his whims that he would fuck me until I beg for more?”

For whatever twisted reason, those are the magic words that Will needs to hear to pick up the pace, blowing his load inside of Hannibal, sending both of them reeling. Hannibal’s close behind, only requiring another jerk or two after Will’s finished. He collapses on top of the escort with a heaving chest, far too many thoughts buzzing around his head.

When Will feels half-human again, he croaks out a final comment. “You could’ve been a psychiatrist, what with all the sex-driven psychoanalytical bullshit you spout off.”

“Don’t write the possibility off just yet,” Hannibal says, overly thrilled with himself as he turns over to look at Will. “I’ve emailed admissions at Johns Hopkins and told them I’ve been considering tutelage for a second MD. They expediently accept donating alumni.”

There’s nothing else that Will can do in response—he starts laughing, long and loud, more obnoxiously than he has in a long time, something like happiness bursting in his chest.

Hannibal hadn’t come undone, not as thoroughly as Will had wished, but something has changed between them. Will isn’t sure if the change is for better or worse, but he doesn’t want to think about consequences today. He just wants to go to sleep with the warmth of a companion by his side.

* * *

It’s the dead middle of a humid summer in Maryland. Will has social obligations to attend to, to prove to his very small circle of friends—or, more precisely, to Beverly, his _actual_ friend, and to Alana, his close-enough-to-being-a-friend—that he’s still alive, or whatever.

He doesn’t know what it is about the Fourth of July that inspires people to go outside, get bitten by mosquitoes, and drink hot beer, but he RSVPs for both of their cookouts, happy to have a legitimate reason to dip out of one party early. Will’s terrific at making up excuses to bolt, but this way, he only has to shamefully slither out of one event.

Luckily for him, Alana’s shindig is earlier on in the day. She lives in downtown Baltimore, in some swanky upscale condo that Will couldn’t afford even if he squeezed every penny out of his check. Not that he’d want to be in the city anyways. He finds them too cramped, too loud, too fast-paced. Crowds give him a headache. More importantly, the water’s too far away from the metropolitan area for him to relax.

Being able to hear the river when he opens his windows is a big part of the appeal of his rinky-dink house. Though, to be fair, since he’s been having company over frequently, he’s been tinkering with things in order to make the place cozier, like upgrading his kitchen appliances. Only Hannibal uses them, though, because Will barely knows how to use a microwave. He’s hung curtains as well, put down decorative rugs and bath mats, etcetera. The last thing he wants is for Hannibal to come over and for the sink to overflow or run out of hot water. He’d be forced to flee the state to avoid his resulting embarrassment.

His Chinos ride up, exposing his ankles over his sandals. He can’t be assed to care. Right now, the only thing he’s worried about is the way his contacts feel—awkward and a little scratchy, like maybe he hadn’t washed them well enough in the morning.

Alana opens the door for Will. He offers her a slight wave as he steps across the threshold. Her smile is bright as she steps aside, introducing him to the other people milling about once he's inside.

He notices her girlfriend right away; she’s drop-dead gorgeous. Alana has always reminded him of a movie star from the 40s, dark black hair coming down in soft ringlets or thick waves paired with shockingly red lipstick, dressed professionally in pencil skirts, donning blouses with conservative necklines. Margot looks equally compelling in an old-fashioned way—curly auburn locks streaked through with golden highlights framing a small face with round cheeks; heavy, smoky makeup bringing out her gray-green eyes. She’s the type of woman Will could see himself kicking back with and commiserating over one thing or another. She has a severity to her, like someone that enjoys telling horror to stories at gatherings to see who will flinch in response.

Will does his due diligence, saying hello to the current guests, looking up when new people arrive. Although he’s not especially hungry, he wanders around the kitchen until he feels dazed, throwing chips and salsa on his plate just to have something to do with his hands.

Determined to find a safe corner to duck into and keep to himself, Will finds himself back in the living room. Sure enough, Margot comes to join him on the couch, with a sprawling, safe distance of three feet between them. “Not a people person?”

The immediate, biting comment that he narrowly refrains from shooting off is _great, another shrink._ Only his respect for Alana keeps him from putting his foot in his mouth. “You could say that,” Will mumbles instead, nibbling at a chip.

“Me neither,” Margot replies, holding a chilled glass of beer in her hand. “What’s so great about people getting together and falling over themselves to brag about their lives?”

“Mingling encourages pack behavior. One person laughs, which makes the other respond accordingly, and we humans can all go on with our merry way, proud of the fact that our stories live on in the hearts of the people we’ve chosen to tell them to.”

Will is happy to know that he read Margot well with his initial impression—she has a wicked, conspiratorial grin on her face. “I like the way you think. You’re Will, right?”

He wipes grease on a nearby napkin before holding his right hand out. Margot’s handshake is strong and sure, much bolder than he would’ve dreamed, given her model-like stature. “Yeah. You’re Margot, the leading lady.”

“Nope. The leading lady’s outside climbing Baltimore’s social ladder,” Margot drawls. Will chuckles at her bored tone. “I’m just the arm candy. These heels are a pain, too. If I’d known that I had to pretend to enjoy kissing men’s asses all day, I would’ve put on flats.”

His teeth flash when he grins at that. “I like you. I hope she keeps you around.”

“Me too.”

With a tentative camaraderie built between them, Margot and Will get to know each other. He learns that she owns half of the Verger estate, constantly fighting with her brother for rights to the family fortune. She’s modest about the money, but she’s not reserved. She’s an unapologetic lesbian. Her past seems complicated. Will doesn’t do her the discourtesy of asking about it.

When they’ve exhausted all avenues of polite conversation, he gets up to leave. “Don’t be a stranger, Will,” Margot says, offering him a smirk and a wave as he departs.

The drive to Beverly’s place is easy. It’s fifteen minutes up the road if he takes the streets. He makes a quick stop at a liquor store, knowing that Beverly will eat him alive if he comes over empty handed. Though her party had started after Alana’s, the guests here are already far more unkempt. Off-duty police officers, a couple of other government worker-bees. Clerks and transcriptionists, junior attorneys.

Parties aren’t his thing, but this sort of gathering is familiar, at least. Precinct 6 had once been notorious for its gregarious employees, having well-organized kickbacks and dutiful designated drivers.

“Well, well,” Beverly says, voice raspy from alcohol. “Look who decided to turn up. Grab a seat, Graham.”

Will drinks as he’s gently ribbed by old acquaintances. Conversation flows easily—there’s nothing like walking the streets and protecting civilians that brings people together. Most police officers are kind, organized types. The structure and rules of the force make life simple.

Beverly has apparently mentioned that Will is broadening his horizons in his quest to build a new life on the other side of the city. There’s perfunctory hooting and hollering about what he’s been up to. Will takes the teasing with grace, sidestepping probing questions with ease.

For a while, he just basks in the flow of the party, observing all the attendants. He takes stock of the groups of friends, those that are likely fooling around but don’t want people to find out. After that, his eyes slide over to those with gold bands on their fingers, all of them looking a bit distracted without their spouses nearby. The whole exercise is so boring that he zones out. He’s floaty enough that he jumps when his phone buzzes in his pocket, startling him into full awareness.

_My apologies if I have interrupted your festivities,_ the text message reads. _I simply wanted to wish you a pleasant holiday._

Though nobody would care if Will answered from the couch—Beverly’s the only one who would notice, but even she’s engaged in some rollicking conversation or another—he slips away to the front yard, typing a response to Hannibal in privacy.

_I’m not a fan of getting drunk and eating burgers until I pass out. This wouldn’t be your scene, but I wish you were here anyways. It’d be nice to have an intelligent conversationalist to talk to._

A minute or two passes before Hannibal answers.

_If I had believed you to be fond of social occasions, I would have invited you to my own gathering. I roasted an entire lamb for my guests, preparing all the necessary accoutrements by hand. Perhaps when the inspiration strikes again, I shall invite you to help me cook. That would be marginally more acceptable, I’m sure._

For a long moment, Will drowns in the vision of such a scene. Hannibal’s kitchen is probably pristine and beautiful, with glittering, chrome-faced appliances and marble countertops. He enjoys making fancy food, so he’d spend a lot of time there. With a start, Will notices he’s been standing outside losing his mind, pulse pounding in his ears, phone clutched tightly in his hand like a lifeline. He shakily manages to clear the image from the back of his eyelids.

_I’d like that. Cooking with you, I mean. _Seconds later, he adds, _What’s the catch?_

Hannibal must be lounging around before his soirée because the texts keep coming in rapid-fire. _No catch. There would be no charge. I simply enjoy the pleasure of your company, and would be delighted to prepare a meal with you. Does the idea of such a thing concern you?_

With trembling hands, Will furiously types back. _You’re playing a dangerous game. You shouldn’t blur the lines. I’ll start to think that you mean it. That you actually want something real with me. Do me a favor; say you were just kidding. It’ll make things easier._ He doesn’t include the implication—that this has to end, one way or another, either when he decides that he’s spending too much money on a service that he doesn’t need, or when Hannibal realizes that he’s wasting precious time on one clingy client when he could be out turning more tricks.

_Although you find it difficult to believe, I am not one to jest, Will. Have you considered the fact that I may have been searching for some way to make this about more than the money? That I am simply offering you this opportunity to terminate our exchange of currency for intimacy?_

_No, I haven’t. You wouldn’t uproot your whole life at the drop of a hat, not for someone like me._ In a rush, he quickly presses the phone symbol next to Hannibal’s name, snarling the second that the older man picks up. “Stop doing this—lying. Playing me for the fool.”

“I meant everything that I said,” Hannibal coolly replies. “I have taken on significantly less clients in the last few months, and no one other than you since we had anal intercourse. I could delete your contact information in a matter of seconds, of course, if you would prefer.”

“No.” It’s an ultimatum if Will’s ever heard one, but one he still can’t—_won’t_—refuse. “You’re an escort. Weaving clever honey traps for men to walk into is your job.”

“When you first called upon me, you were nothing more than a fumbling thing, fighting against years of repression and internalized homophobia. You chose me from a line of vapid, virtually faceless men because I appealed to your sense of aesthetics, your desire for rules and guidelines. That desire, which had once driven you into the long arms of the law for comfort, brought you to the hotel. You grow more daring each week, free to pursue your cravings at your own leisure. Recently, you have begun to bloom, running past skeptical yearning and leaping into the jaws of this affair. Initially, your repeated requests for my presence were born out of a lack of confidence. You didn’t know what to do with men, terrified of winding up with someone who might take advantage of you. Now, you have learned to reach out and ask for what you want. Tell me, Will. As an established escort, what could have been my motivation to do such a thing?”

Will closes his eyes against the torrential onslaught of Hannibal’s words. “Money is motivation enough,” he whispers, throat dry, knowing that it’s not the truth.

“You shouldn’t attempt to deceive me either. Fair’s fair. I, too, am no one’s fool.”

“What am I supposed to say?” Will feels rumpled and enraged, always pissy when he’s out of his depth. “That you got too attached to me, just like I got too attached to you? That, what, I’m just supposed to blindly _believe_ that you care about me?”

“Yes. I want you to know me. See me.” Hannibal sounds bereft. His tone curbs Will's doubts, if only slightly. “I cannot deny the convoluted nature of our appointments, but I am well-versed in acts of negotiation.”

“Taking a broken man and giving him everything he needs in one package is ignorant. Most people would even call it reckless.”

“You are not broken. You’re _a_ man, one that I would happily see elevated to his greatest potential.” After a pause, Hannibal asks, “Are you reprehensive because of the amount of money you have poured into this endeavor?”

“No—Jesus, _no_. Keep the money. If anything, I’ve started to chip away at your lush fund.”

“Think it over, Will. I don’t expect you to come to a conclusion right this minute. I apologize for interrupting your festivities once more. I hope that our appointment still stands for this Friday.”

Blue eyes flutter closed. Will shakily inhales, clenching and unclenching his fingers in an abstract quest for balance. “Alright.”

When the torrid phone call ends, Will stares off at nothing for a miserable stretch of time. As he reels himself back in, he gathers his wits, saying goodbye to Beverly before driving off aimlessly, unsure of exactly where he’s going.

The next time he opens his eyes and actually pays attention to his surroundings, he’s at the riverbank with his tackle box by his feet, Winston napping on the sun-warmed rocks by the shore beside him.

“Shit,” Will whispers to himself, his fishing rod gripped in a vice.

He desperately wishes he could start this day over from the beginning.

* * *

Friday leaves Will in a state, speeding through his lectures like an automaton just to get them over with, idling around the research lab with Price and Zeller waspily theorizing about the reasons for Will’s foul temper. He ignores them, knowing he’s not doing himself any favors, storming out of the place that afternoon once he's finished scratching his initials into the attendance log.

He’s had plenty of time to think. An abundance of it, really. When seven o’clock rolls around, Will feels ragged and wrung out, watching the seconds tick by until the minute hand hits the five.

Hannibal’s tires crunch over the gravel drive as the Audi pulls into park. When the tall, affluent man unfolds himself from the car, he looks as weary as Will feels. Knowing that Hannibal—organized, well-groomed, and compulsively restrained to a fault—is ruffled changes things. it suddenly makes the whole mess feel genuine, like the past few days have been static, unmoving pictures. That Hannibal has just stepped out of those glossy surfaces into the world.

They’re both unusually quiet as they drink, but the silence isn’t oppressive. Will appreciates that about Hannibal, that they don’t always have to talk to understand each other.

Halfway down a bottle of some vintage wine that Will can’t pronounce, he says, “What if it’s just a curiosity thing? What if I get tired of the novelty?”

Hannibal shrugs. “It’s not as if I’ll be tossed out on the streets. I’m experienced in making investments. I often lease refurbished old buildings out to travelers for additional funds. If you’re concerned about my prestige as an escort, pay the matter no mind. I’ve built up a reputation over the last few years, and doubtless could do so again, should I so choose. Of course, in a matter of a decade, I would likely be driven to retire regardless. My age is catching up to me.”

Will snorts at that. “You think you’d be the only horny old man in Baltimore?”

He chortles in response. “Most assuredly not. But I certainly might be the only one listed on a paid escort service website.”

“How old are you, anyways?”

“Forty-two.” Seeing the open bewilderment on Will’s face, Hannibal expounds on his personal history. “I moved to the United States at age nineteen, and I had been on accelerated education tracks in Europe. My citizenship was quickly approved after I got accepted into Johns Hopkins at twenty-one. I completed my residency at twenty-seven. The rest, you know.”

“Don’t you feel like things are moving too fast?” Will’s already thirty-one, but he feels like he came screaming into the world just yesterday. “What if I’m only attracted to one part of you? What if I don’t really like men? I just like that thing you do with your voice.” _The air of superiority_, he thinks. _That obnoxious overconfidence._

“Then I should hope you could come to find other parts of me fascinating enough to give this a chance,” Hannibal hums. “Besides, would it be so terrible if that were the case? The prospect is enticing to me. Being the center of someone’s universe.”

“I don’t do things by halves,” Will warns him pointedly, well aware of how ridiculous he sounds. “It’s all or nothing with me. I’m the type to devour things that I keep, to use them until they fall apart. That’s why paying for your time was easier. There was a sense of distance. Before you, I only ever had one-night stands.”

“Devour me, then,” Hannibal acquiesces quickly, allowing Will too much. It gives Will a terrible rush of power; he could do _anything_. Hannibal would close his eyes and let him.

_This is dangerous, _Will internally muses; he doesn’t dare say that aloud.

“You’ll ruin me for anyone else,” Will whispers, cautiously standing up, wandering to Hannibal’s side.

Hannibal reaches out to clasp his hand, openly expressing his adoration. “Good.”

Moments later, Will finds himself heading to the bedroom, whistling for the dogs to stand down when they try to follow him, Hannibal trailing close behind.

* * *

Beverly is the one who asks him to do a field consult this time. “I’m sorry to bother you, but the Captain agrees with me. There’s nobody else for the job.”

Will is disgruntled by the call, to say the least. She’s lucky that he’d been alone the night before. If Hannibal had been over, he might’ve come up with some pitiful excuse to worm his way out of it. His partner would have enabled him.

As it’s mid-September, the weather is finally beginning to cool down. He couldn’t be happier about that, because it means he can keep his door unlocked for the dogs to do their business when he leaves. There’s nothing in his place worth stealing except a couple expensive bottles of wine and an old, sorely untuned piano. Besides, if anybody tries to break in, seven restlessly canines would likely warn them off.

When he arrives at the scene, officers are taking statements from the citizens who’d reported the crime as well as snapping detailed photographs. Beverly waits for him with a temporary badge, lifting the police tape and ushering him into the area, waiting for Will to process the raw, gruesome image.

It’s so much worse this way than it is when he’s looking at dry, stolid case files. Idly, he thinks Jack would be proud. He would like nothing more than for Will to come out of his self-sanctioned retirement to catch the crazies.

All things considered, the murder is beautiful. It’s also the body that’s been dropped the closest to Baltimore proper. Will has a sneaking suspicion that he's seen something similar recently—this composer has an incredibly unique signature.

A woman is braced against wire netting, something cut and shaped to look like a delicate chain-link fence. Her hands are turned up in supplication, a pure white robe adorning her form. There isn’t enough blood on the ground to suggest that she’d been killed here, so the body’s been moved from another location.

Her rusty blonde hair has been braided, flowers woven into the plaits. Red carnations, a small sunflower, violets. Will doesn’t know flower language, but all of it is awfully bright—they have to mean something positive. Maybe the killer had appreciated this woman more than his usual prey; maybe it’s some additional flight of fancy, a new portion of his signature.

Mossy stones have been placed around her corpse for atmospheric improvement. Something about the rendering reminds him of the classic rendering of Ophelia by Millais. Typically, that kind of stuff slides right out of his brain because he doesn’t have the eye for it, but an old fling had been obsessed with the picture. There’s no water around for miles, or at least there isn’t any water around right now, but the impression remains all the same.

“It rained a couple days ago, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” Beverly replies, her tone perfunctory, detached.

_Clever_. “Give me a full rundown, Sergeant Katz.” Will squares up his shoulders as he takes stock of the scene, trying to drown out the noise around him, winding the clock backwards.

“Victim, aged thirty-four, white. Identification unknown as of yet. No sexual violations committed against her person, but forensics speculates that she was tortured before being killed. We’ll know more after the coroner takes a look. There’s been organ removal. No DNA evidence belonging to the unknown suspect has been found.”

That’s why Will has been summoned to the scene, of course, so he closes his eyes and does what he does best.

Walking in the unsub’s shoes, he revels in his mastery. Everything has been planned out ahead of time, right down to the swatch of grass that this woman has been loaded into, her body perfectly molded to suit his design. The water would pool up in the dip of the dirt. The receding puddle would remove any lasting shoe-prints—not that there would be any in the first place. He isn’t a man to take chances.

Cloth covering over the loafers then, or perhaps plastic, but something thick. Knowing what the man kills in isn’t going to help the police find him, so Will centers himself, trying to focus on the slippery ghost of this murderer.

He’s relentless, driven, single-minded. He has a methodology, but Will can’t see its boundaries yet. There have been five known victims in the northeastern area, but only three of them have been white Americans. They’d all come from different backgrounds, had no linked social circles, and they’d all had fairly commonplace jobs. A realtor, a physician, a shoemaker, a grocery store attendant. Will doesn’t expect the latest victim to have had a remarkable career either.

How does he do it? Does he stalk them for weeks, waiting for his chance? Does he sabotage their vehicles, take them from the highway? There’s a high chance of that, since there’s never any evidence at the crime scenes, so he tells Beverly to look into it. She scribbles down a note immediately.

When he decides there’s nothing else to be gleaned from the place, Will excuses himself. He’s going to dream about this in the evening, unfortunately. The image had been too stark to easily forget.

Beverly quietly asks him, “You got any ideas?”

Will sighs. “Just one.”

“What? Seriously?” She frowns. “How do you know?”

“That’s confidential.”

“That’s code for _Jack Crawford told me_.” Beverly gives him the sad look she always does when she finds out that Jack has bullied his way back into Will’s life.

“He needed my help. So did you. Everybody knows I’m not good at saying no.”

At the reminder, Beverly winces. “I won’t call you again, especially since I know that a correlation has been established. I can’t believe this isn’t all over the news yet.”

“The FBI has it under strict lock and key, at least for the moment,” he says. “I’m sure the journalist bloodhounds can smell something suspicious, even if the department tries to keep things under wraps.”

“I just hope that means Freddie Lounds isn’t going to try to sleep her way through Baltimore PD in hopes of finding a lead.”

Will snorts. “It’s nice to have dreams, Bev.”

“So what am I supposed to say to the Captain? Or hell, the Chief?”

He thrusts his hands in his pockets, scuffs his heels against the dirt. “That there’s a serial killer on the loose and that you’ll do everything you can to catch him until the FBI shows up to steal the show.”

Beverly wriggles her nose in disgust. “That plan sounds like shit.”

“It’s the only one you’ve got, so take it or leave it.”

* * *

Later, after the scene’s been cleaned up, Beverly files her report and meets Will for a late lunch. Neither of them are particularly hungry, given what they’ve been doing all morning, but they get greasy junk food anyways; force of habit.

With a mouth full of ranch-dipped french fries, Beverly says, “In other, brighter news, you’ve been holding out on me, Graham. What’s your deal?”

He pauses with his mouth open, dripping ketchup on the tray in his shock. “Huh?”

“At my party a couple months back, I saw you talking on the phone outside. Everything’s been quiet ever since, and, dare I say it, you look less bitchy than normal.”

Will rolls his eyes. “What a glowing review.”

“It is—for you. You didn’t even do that cranky, creepy shit you tend to do at crime scenes. You were downright agreeable, even to the new cadets.”

Swallowing some of his burger, Will replies, “Can’t you just chalk it up to me finally enjoying my life?”

“If your life includes getting laid on a regular basis, then I’m willing to allow that.” She waggles her eyebrows at him and he groans, caught. “Oh my god. You actually found someone, didn’t you?”

“Ugh.” He despises these sorts of conversations, but he’d known this outcome would be unavoidable ever since he and Hannibal had decided to make things official.

Beverly absolutely beams with pride. “You _did_, holy shit. Graham, you sly dog. Were you ever gonna tell me?”

He takes a long slurp of his soda before he grumbles, “I mean, probably. Eventually.”

“I want details, buddy. How’d you meet?”

Heat blooms across Will’s chest against his wishes. He fights the urge to stammer like a nervous adolescent. “Online.” It’s not a lie. Technically.

“What’s he like? Or she,” Beverly hurriedly adds, just in case her hunch is wrong.

“He’s nice. A little older than me,” he notes, which is an understatement. The eleven years between then occasionally leads to cultural distance, but Hannibal never makes Will feel immature. “Very calm, super smart. There’s something kind of intense about him. I can’t really describe it. He’s odd, but then, he has to be, to put up with my bullshit.”

“Oh, Will,” she croons, slapping him roughly on the shoulder. “He sounds like he’s a good match for you. What’s his name?”

Feeling fiercely private about his personal business once more, he scowls, taking another bite of his food. “That’s all you get this time, Katz.”

“Damn. I’ll weasel the truth out of you one of these days, Graham, just you wait.”

He doesn’t doubt that. Beverly can be relentless in her pursuit of knowledge, after all.

* * *

It’s the first time Will is going to Hannibal’s place. He’s absolutely shit-his-pants nervous. Alana can tell how jumpy he is when she comes over to take watch the dogs. She tells him to calm down no less than four times.

He puts on his finest black slacks and a baby blue button-down, hoping that color brings out his eyes. He doesn’t know why he’s trying so hard to impress the older man. Hannibal has seen him looking far worse over the last six months. Alana says it’s the novelty of doing something different, of being away from the safe grounds of his own house or a hotel. She’s right, of course, but it doesn’t stop Will from nearly having a panic attack.

Taking a few deep breaths and straightening his back, he finishes trimming his facial hair before getting into his car. He swears at everything as he drives through the late afternoon rush in Baltimore, pulling up to a stately building that easily costs a million dollars, if not more.

He occasionally forgets that Hannibal is loaded. The reminder sends him reeling. He’s gulping for air by the time he’s stable enough to peel himself out of the Volvo. His fingers are shaking. He’s so terrible at this. Dating. Being normal.

He rings the doorbell, nervously fidgeting with the bottle of top-shelf whiskey in his hand. Will almost leaps out of his skin when the chime echoes inside of the house.

Hannibal arrives, swiftly putting Will out of his misery. He offers the shorter man a soft smile, ushering Will inside, placing a hand at the small of his back for reassurance. Will breathes out carefully, trying to quirk his lips up at Hannibal and failing miserably.

“This way,” Hannibal murmurs, careful not to startle Will. He leads him to the kitchen. The layout and design is just as obnoxious as Will had assumed it to be, but the colors are more muted. It’s likely meant to serve as a background, as the owner of said kitchen draws enough attention all by himself.

Once Will has relaxed enough to drink in his surroundings, it registers to him that the house’s interior is truly gorgeous. Hannibal doesn’t look half-bad himself. His sleeves are pushed up, showcasing strong forearms covered in light brown hair. He has a white chef’s apron tied around his waist that drapes down to his ankles, but there isn’t a single drop of liquid on the fabric. Meticulous, OCD-riddled man. That realization what it takes for Will to stop bunching up his shoulders and digging his nails into his palms—understanding that Hannibal is neurotic and eccentric, just like him.

_Match made in heaven_.

“Hello,” Will says, clearing his throat, beginning to settle back into his skin.

“Hello,” Hannibal replies, teeth poking out as he puts on that half-cocked smirk that he’s so often donned in Will’s presence as of late. “Lovely of you to join me tonight. Would you like me to open that for you?”

He points to the whiskey bottle that Will has somehow managed to get onto the island’s countertop. Will nods.

“Two fingers, neat, if you don’t mind.” Hannibal places a shimmering rocks glass down gingerly, like he’s performed the motion a thousand times. Even his drinkware is polished. Will laughs. “You have a problem.”

“You are referring to my desire for order and cleanliness, I presume,” Hannibal muses. If Will’s reading his expression correctly, he’s pouting. He’s _offended_. That only makes Will laugh even more. “It is only a disorder or a compulsion if one lets it rule them.”

“You’re telling me that you _don’t_ leave the house without making sure your shoes have been polished a specific number of times? That you don’t wipe those glasses down with gloves on so there’s no chance of leaving fingerprints on them when you put them in the cabinets?”

Hannibal sticks up his nose, full-on sulking now. “It isn’t debilitating.”

“No. It’s just obsessive-compulsive disorder,” Will teases. Realizing that he isn’t going to win, Hannibal sighs, throwing his hands in the air and giving up the fight. “It’s fine. It doesn’t take away from your roguish European charm.”

The rest of the evening passes with light-hearted banter. Now that they’re no longer constrained by the trappings of a relationship built on money, conversation flows freely between them. Hannibal talks about his psychiatric studies. Will talks about his research.

An hour into lounging after dinner, Will stretches his legs out, watching as Hannibal slips his loafers off to massage his feet. His eyelids flutter closed when Hannibal applies gentle pressure. A moan escapes Will’s mouth when the other man smooths out an especially tough knot.

Feeling weightless, Will mumbles, “Let’s go to bed.” At first, Hannibal motions for his guest to take his hand, offering Will assistance in peeling his body off of the couch’s buttery leather upholstery. When Will stays indolent, lazily studying Hannibal from his perch, Hannibal puts his hands against Will’s ribcage and thighs. He quirks his head, as if to ask, _is this okay? _Will nods, giving him permission.

Hannibal's arms are as sturdy as they look, cradling Will sturdily, like he’s something that would fracture into pieces if dropped. There is a storm brewing in Will’s mind. He closes his eyes to quiet it. _Let me have this_, he says to the poisonous, snakelike hissing in the back of his head. _Go away, just for tonight._

Will gets delicately lowered down onto the mattress and arranged, like a work of art. He feels similar to the woman in the field. _Like a__ tableau_, Will’s traitorous mind offers. He slams that thought out with the force of a car crash—he’s not going to think about murder and death while Hannibal is so obviously alive next to him, waiting for Will’s cues.

“I want you to do it.” There’s no need for clarification about what _it_ is. Hannibal knows him too well. “I need to get out of my head_._” He feels like he’s going crazy, associating blood and bile with this desperate need for body heat. “I want it. _Please_,” he adds. Begging for it will stroke Hannibal’s ego.

“Patience is a virtue,” Hannibal says, slipping Will’s buttons free of their holes, casually divesting the younger man of his clothing.

“I’m not feeling particularly virtuous,” Will snarls at him, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t do anything to speed up or stop the proceedings. Hannibal will take as much time as he wants to bring Will to the cusp of climax now that he’s been given free reign. “Judging by the look on your face, you aren’t either.”

“_Au contraire_,” the older man hums, his French accent smooth and natural. Will wouldn’t be surprised to find that he’s fluent in the language. “I kneel at the foot of the cross. In my prayer of adoration, I honor the blessing of thine name.”

Sadist. Sacrilegious. Control-freak. Charming, arrogant, beautifully self-assured man. Will is suddenly overcome with fondness for Hannibal. His personality is so remarkable that it’s suffocating. There’s something strangely compelling about him, about the way that he tries to hide himself in plain sight. Will wants to know more about Hannibal, to find out where the depths of Hannibal’s fathoms end.

Because Hannibal is currently keeping him occupied, there are no ghosts to be found; no sad-eyed, dearly departed women in Will’s head. There is only the smolder of Hannibal’s deep, dark eyes, roving over his body like he would like nothing more than to reach into Will’s chest, to eat his heart out while it’s still beating.

Will had told Hannibal once that he devours the things that he cares for. He wonders if Hannibal has the tendency to do the same.

Everything starts off slowly. Unlike the last time they had intercourse, Hannibal takes the time to strip himself down, subjecting Will to a long bout of foreplay. His tongue is teasing as it briefly lathes Will’s nipples, spending more time sucking on the tender skin of the younger man’s thighs and the area just under his chin.

They kiss for long intervals of time. Will whines when they part, babbling nonsense. Every time Hannibal’s cock drags against his own, he holds onto Hannibal’s glutes for dear life, making filthy, keening noises. He barely recognizes his own voice, he’s so strung out.

When Hannibal parts Will’s thighs and dips his head, Will sighs in consolation. To his surprise, Hannibal’s artful tongue slips into his ass instead of lapping at his dick; he yelps at the first lick, clenching his fists in the older man’s hair the second time.

He’s tense. It takes a few more tries for Hannibal to coax Will into loosening up, encouraging him by petting Will’s abdomen and calves. Shakily, he obeys, drowning in the sensation.

It’s strange. It feels odd—good, but still awkward, like he’s spilled water down the back of his trousers. The pad of Hannibal’s tongue keeps breaching him, reminding him that the owner of said tongue is _literally inside of him. _He gasps sharply at the thought.

Will doesn’t notice Hannibal getting up to procure lube, but then again, Hannibal is a professional. He’d probably set the tube down next to them before he’d even touched Will’s naked form.

A finger slips in beside the wriggling tongue, and the moment it glances against his prostate, Will howls, curling in on himself, nearly ripping out a chunk of Hannibal’s hair as his body tenses up. Hannibal pulls back, momentarily admiring his handiwork. “How are you feeling thus far?”

“Like you should shut up and go back to doing that, holy shit.”

Hannibal grins. “As you wish.”

He makes a couple more rounds with his mouth and his digits, expertly rubbing Will’s dick in time with the prostate massage. He comes all over Hannibal’s face. He would feel a little guilty about that, except that Hannibal swipes his terrible, naughty tongue out to taste his ejaculate while grinning like a sly cat, humming in satisfaction.

“Tangy,” he says. Will swats at Hannibal's arm while attempting to catch his breath. “Would you mind if I continued with the process? Or would you prefer to bask in the afterglow?”

Will puts his hands down so he can interlace his fingers with Hannibal’s. “I want what I asked for.”

“Of course.”

When Hannibal moves to procure a condom, Will shakes his head. He wants this, all of this, in the purest form; he wants it raw. Besides, they’ve both had tests taken since this has become official. They’re clean.

Hannibal spends a period of time stroking himself to full mast, making a show out of it for his audience of one. Will’s certainly interested enough. His dick would twitch if he had any energy at all. He’s riding his post-orgasmic high, the rush of endorphins and oxytocin keeping him alert.

Hannibal lines himself up, gliding in inch by inch. The squelch of the lube sounds amplified in the quiet room. Will’s eyes fly open as Hannibal keeps pressing forward, startled by the strength of his razor-edged pleasure. When he’s buried to the hilt, Hannibal pauses, taking a moment to wipe sweaty bangs from Will’s eyes and staring at the younger man, his gaze full of longing.

“It is rare that one chances upon someone with a mind and a body equally as captivating to the senses,” Hannibal murmurs, the vibrations of his throat buzzing against Will’s skin where their torsos are touching. “I’m honored that you would allow me to do this for you.”

Before Will can think of anything to say, Hannibal leans back. He snaps his hips swiftly, stealing the air out of Will’s lungs.

His movements are primal and rugged. His teeth latch onto Will’s collar, nearly drawing blood. Will wonders if it had ever been like this when he’d fucked Hannibal, like he’d been starving for it. Their bodies are beginning to blur together. Will doesn’t know who’s muttering, “Yes, yes, _yes_,” but it’s probably him. His moans feel disembodied. He feels like he's been flayed, like his very blood has been set aflame.

It’s so. Goddamn. _Good_. He’s full, muscles stretched taut, adjusting to the girth of Hannibal’s penis. He’s pushing himself like a racehorse to hit Will’s prostate with every thrust. Will could cry, he’s so overstimulated.

He wants to come. He _needs_ to come, but he’s already spent. There’s a trickle of some sort of seminal fluid leaking from the head of his cock, but Will doesn’t care—all he cares about right now is Hannibal.

Hannibal keeps muttering Will’s name like it’s the gospel itself. He pulls out, leaving Will bereft, coming between the sweat-damp valley of Will’s thighs.

The world falls out of focus as Hannibal’s chest heaves. He picks up Will’s limp left hand, clasps their overly-warm fingers together in a loose hold.

For the rest of the night, there’s nothing in Will’s head except for the pinpricks of soreness that remind him that his body will ache in the morning and the soft lull of Hannibal’s voice rocking him to sleep.

“How did it feel?”

There are no words to describe it. Awe-inspiring. Lewd. Delicious.

Eventually, Will settles on mumbling, “Like everything I never knew I needed." Then, everything fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **bg info:**  
✧flower language (per [farmer's almanac](https://www.almanac.com/content/flower-meanings-language-flowers)):  
-red carnations = admiration  
-sunflower = adoration  
-violets = loyalty, devotion
> 
> ✧[ophelia](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/94/John_Everett_Millais_-_Ophelia_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg/1600px-John_Everett_Millais_-_Ophelia_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg) by millais
> 
> ✧**my tumblr: [quillifer](https://quillifer.tumblr.com)**


	3. part III: dance

<strike></strike>When his phone buzzes on his nightstand, it is the feeling of Hannibal groaning and waking up beside him that startles him into awareness more than anything else. He slaps at the wood until his phone rests in his palm, garbling out a greeting. “Hello?” Absently, Will hopes his voice doesn’t sound too ragged from sucking cock mere hours ago.

“Will,” Jack Crawford snaps, sounding restless and brittle. “Can you catch a flight to Ann Arbor today or tomorrow?”

Pulling the phone away from his ear, he squints down at the time. “Jesus, Jack, it’s four in the fucking morning.”

“Believe me, I know. I need you here.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, I’m not on your payroll, and I’m _not interested_—”

“It’s him,” The older man says, interrupting him sharply. Will’s mouth goes dry. “Or, at least, we think it’s him. The tabloids have taken to calling him the Chesapeake Ripper. Nothing too fancy, or even accurate. He hasn’t confined himself to the Chesapeake Bay area. I need you come out here for confirmation. If you make any other unexplainable leaps, I’ll take those, too.”

“The _evidence_ explains,” Will reminds him, breathing heavily through clenched teeth. “I can’t just drop everything and go, alright? I’ll call the school and let you know.”

“I’ll get you a standing ticket to pick up at the airport. See you soon.”

Disgruntled, Will sits up, running a hand through his unruly curls. Next to him, Hannibal hums. “That sounded rather unpleasant.”

“I may or may not have an acquaintance in the FBI who doesn’t take no for an answer.” Dragging his sorry ass out of bed, Will plants a kiss on Hannibal’s cheek before stretching out his arms. “Be careful, okay? You didn’t hear this from me, but there might be a serial killer on the loose. Nobody knows how he’s choosing his victims.”

“I see,” Hannibal replies in that quiet, detached way of his. Will only hopes the façade isn’t disguising panic beneath the surface. “I thought you had left this sort of thing behind in the past. Are you no longer worried about nightmares plaguing you?”

Affection clogs Will’s throat. He feels like he’s choking on it. Rather than being worried for his own safety, Hannibal is worried about Will losing his shit while walking in a murderer’s shoes. His concern is valid, but startling all the same.

“I am.” Will tentatively swings his hand closer to Hannibal’s chest. The older man takes pity on him, reaching up to interlace their fingers. “I’m scared I’ll come home and hurt you. You haven’t seen how I get. I’m not safe to be around.” After a beat, he admits his greatest fear to the person he now trusts more than anyone else in the world. “Sometimes, I think that I’m just like them—cold-blooded murderers. That’s why it’s so easy for me to think like they do. Don’t get me wrong. I can empathize with anyone, but sometimes slipping into that mindset is way too easy.”

“Then the nightmares aren’t a result of you being shocked by your associations. Rather, they stem from obligations to your own code of morality. You throw part of your identity away every time you reach out to connect, bringing something back with you like a ghost. You feel guilty when you don’t empathize with the victims. Likewise, you feel guilty when you cannot see the men behind the curtains, because you also cannot see yourself.”

Will laughs humorlessly. “That’s a pretty accurate read, Dr. Lecter.”

Hannibal smiles, pressing his lips to Will’s knuckles. “Never fear, dear Will. I have every confidence in your ability to come back in one piece. I won’t let you be alone with a killer dancing inside your brain. I’ll teach you meditative mechanisms, if you’d like, to help your own conscious emerge triumphant.”

“I don’t like therapy,” Will warns him. “It doesn’t work on me.”

The older man’s eyes shine with odious promise. “You haven’t tested out my specific brand of therapy yet.”

Will rolls his eyes, dragging himself to the shower. “Your ego deserves its own zip code.”

* * *

It’s cold as a witch’s tit in Detroit, so Will bundles himself up tightly in his pea coat. Will’s eyes roam over the city’s decorations throughout the cab ride from the airport. The Christmas spirit is rampant everywhere in America this time of year, but Will doesn’t understand it. He never has.

He’d come from a home with one quiet, withdrawn parent who hadn’t made enough money for expensive presents. His father had worked hard to put _something_ under the metaphorical tree every year—fishing flies, toy cars, second-hand action figures—but there hadn’t been any tinsel or ornaments to hang in their leaky-roofed house.

“We’re here,” the taxi driver gruffly announces. Will gives him his credit card, determined to have Jack reimburse him for the fee. He signs the receipt with a flourish, shivering as he gets out of the car. He wishes he’d worn a scarf.

He walks for a block or so before he finds a trail that leads him down to an old, abandoned warehouse, hearing the click of flashbulbs as he nears the scene. Like a harbinger of death, a copse of copper curls awaits him after he ducks into the alleyway. The woman he considers his greatest enemy stands in his path, her arms folded over her chest. “Well, well,” Freddie Lounds says. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

Will scowls, attempting to sidestep her. “Lounds. You know you’re not supposed to be here.”

“Neither are you.” Which, to her credit, is true, but he’d never give her the satisfaction of winning an argument without a fight.

“Agent Crawford requested my consult for the scene.”

“Which means that the FBI needs the help of their pet psychopath in order to find a new breed of killer.” Will would give anything to wrap his hands around Freddie’s tiny, pale throat. He despises the way she bites down to the bone without a hint of remorse. “Are we looking at the next Ted Bundy? Or is he more like Dahmer? Word on the street is that there’s been organ removal.”

His eyes narrow. “I’m guessing your source is confidential.”

Freddie smirks in response. “I’m not the kind to kiss and tell.”

Uncaring of whatever useless bullshit she plans on writing about him, he shoulder-checks Freddie before walking briskly up to the yellow caution tape, telling one of the agents guarding the site who he is.

Once he’s been ushered inside of the warehouse, Will looks for Jack, annoyed for a myriad of reasons now. “You have a rat,” he says, stomping over to the dark-skinned man. Jack raises an eyebrow. “Lounds knows that the perp has been harvesting organs. I hate to say it, but she might be on to something. He could be cannibalizing his victims.”

A deep scowl increases the furrow in Jack’s brow. “How’d you get to be the bearer of that bad news?”

“I ran into her outside.” Will snorts, shoving his hands into his pockets. “What’ve we got?”

“Victim’s Enrique Martinez, age forty-six. Nobody’s heard from him in over a month. He didn’t show up for work on November fifth. The missing persons case has been open with Detroit PD since the seventh.”

“What was his line of work?”

“HVAC. Get this—he’s only been in Michigan for nine years. Wanna know where he’s originally from?”

Will exhales. They finally appear to have a real lead. “Baltimore.”

“Exactly.”

“You’ve made a map of his potential territory, I assume.”

Jack reaches into his inside coat pocket, pulling out a huge, folded piece of paper. All of the body drop sites are circled in blue—Dover, DE. Springfield, MA. Bristol, VT. Philadelphia, PA. Towson, MD. Ann Arbor, MI. The distance to each of those places from Baltimore isn’t vast. Most of them are less than three hours away from the city by car. Furthermore, the former places of employment for each of the victims have little yellow stickers on them. The last year that each victim worked there is written on the stickers in pen. 1999. 2000. 2002. 2001. 1999. 2003.

“Damn.” Will whistles. “He’s patient.”

“I know.” Jack runs a frustrated hand over the top of his head. “It’s been too long for us to trace their specific histories, figure out who they knew back then.”

“What else do the victims have in common?”

Putting the map away, Jack motions for one of his grunts to come over, a thick manila folder in their hand. Will flips through it, glancing at the highlights. “They were all fairly healthy, relatively lean. No chain smokers or alcoholics; no colorful sexual histories. Their clean lifestyles lend credibility to the whole cannibalism theory, I suppose.” Will nods. “You need some space to do your thing with this?” Jack gestures to the gory scene they’ve been standing at the fringes of for the last few minutes.

Will answers in the affirmative. Once Jack departs, he gets down to business.

The tableau is polished; almost sterile. It’s so compulsively tidy that it reminds him of Hannibal—_don’t think about Hannibal._

It’s difficult for him to shake off the lingering fondness for his partner. Maybe that’s why he feels so warm and soft as he approaches the olive-skinned man tied to a wooden brace. _Don’t be scared_, he finds himself talking to the stranger in his head. The man’s dark eyes are damp as he whimpers in terror, shaking his head. _Fear will make you acrid. I'll take care of you. You can trust me._

Enrique relaxes, looking up at him—_at the murderer, _Will attempts to forcibly correct himself—in reverence. Will reaches out, running a loving hand down Enrique’s jaw, just like he would cradle Hannibal’s, hushing him softly. In the blink of an eye, he jabs a knife into Enrique’s gut. Betrayed, Enrique quivers, screaming into the cloth gag wrapped around his face. “I'll raise you up, utilizing this body that you are wasting, making it valuable. Most of you will be a sacrifice for the FBI to be bewildered by. The rest shall live on in my veins. Let life beget life.”

Will's hands are steady as he cuts the kidneys away from connective tissue and viscera, letting Enrique go into shock, panic rising as his tormentor ferrets away the meal for later. There are bags to seal the organs in and a cooler for them so that they won't spoil—he is an experienced hunter.

“May your spirit shine brighter in the next life,” Will whispers under his breath. “What were the victims like?”

“What do you mean?” Assuming that he’s allowed to talk again, Jack steps in closer.

Shuffling in place, Will expounds on his budding theory. “Were they nice? Belligerent? Brutish?”

“I don’t know, but I can have my people look into it.”

“This isn’t a compulsion. He doesn’t feel the burning urge to kill, he just wants to. He knows he can get away with it because he’s been doing it for years. He has a method. He has a _cause_, even if it’s not obvious right now. You have to find something that these people have in common. They’re being punished for something they did to him, or something this guy saw them do. That’s all I’ve got.”

Jack gratefully squeezes Will’s right shoulder. “That’s more than I expected. Thank you.”

Will shrugs. “No problem.”

Just as he's turning to leave, Jack clears his throat. “You know, I still wish you were back in the field.” Will frowns as he pivots on his heel, noticing Jack’s amused smile. “I can tell you’re doing a lot better away from the work, though. Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Excuse me?”

Jack points to his own neck. The gesture encourages Will to pull down his shirt collar, where he finds an undeniable swath of blooming, teeth-shaped bruises. Hannibal's given him goddamn hickeys. “She must be quite the firecracker.”

Heat quickly spreads across Will’s cheeks. “_He’s_ going to get his ass kicked when I get home,” Will darkly mumbles, horribly embarrassed. He’s reminded of the time his father had once caught him jerking off in the bathroom. To Jack's credit, he doesn't seem surprised by Will's admittance that he's dating another man. Beverly might not be the only person who'd believed him to be bisexual after all. “It’s still a pretty new thing. His name’s Hannibal.”

The FBI agent blinks. “Not Hannibal Lecter?”

Will’s the one who’s staggered this time, although, to be fair, it’s a pretty rare name. “You know each other?”

“No, no.” Jack holds up his hands. “He recently published an article on his theories of social exclusion in the American Journal of Psychiatry. It was notable because he used to be a surgeon, not a psychiatrist. Good read. Smart stuff.”

It makes perfect sense that Jack Crawford, the head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, would keep up with that sort of thing. Will can only recall Hannibal’s bleary expression when he’d completed the damn thing, remembering that the older man had fallen asleep that night within minutes.

“I’m happy for you, Will,” Jack assures him. “I really am.”

Will doesn’t do well with compliments, so he gruffly says thanks before he hightails it out of there as quickly as he can.

* * *

Peace reigns supreme in Will’s life for about four days before things start to go off the rails. He texts Hannibal absently, knowing that his partner has lectures to attend amongst plenty of other responsibilities and hobbies keeping him occupied. Then, one day, he finds that he can’t do much of anything. He's paralyzed by fitful daydreams.

An airy wraith looms behind him, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. The ghostly hand glances over his flesh, the disembodied voice telling him to pick up a knife. He’s fortunate that the only thing worth cutting in his kitchen is frozen fish. The glossy, lifeless eyes of the creatures stare back at him, enticing Will to stab them countless times, dirtying his hands and the blade in the process. This isn't enough to get his pulse elevated, to set fire to his blood; this will never be enough. Everything is too cool to the to touch.

_Why isn't he warm?_ _I haven't drained him yet. W__here is Enrique?_

Will drives to work automatically the next two days, barely aware of his surroundings. It’s astounding that his voice reaches a volume louder than a murmur when he lectures. He can't recollect a damn thing he's talked about in any of his classes. He can hardly hear himself think over the volume of his vivid hallucinations.

He wants more. _N__eeds _more. Will’s breath comes quickly, body shaking as he holds the knife over his hand—over his _victim’s_ hand. Over his victim’s abdomen. _I trust you_, Enrique whispers. Just before he can plunge his weapon into the meat, familiar fingers wrap around his wrist. Will sharply whips around, his blue eyes wide, ravenous.

“Will,” Hannibal whispers, being careful not to startle him. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

The knife clatters to the countertop. Will blinks rapidly, sucking in great gulps of air. “What are you doing here?” It can’t be Friday yet. He’d just flown to Ann Arbor on Monday. “Did I leave the door unlocked?”

“It’s Sunday, actually,” Hannibal gently corrects him.

Will’s shoulders slump. All of the sudden, he realizes that he has a pounding headache. Due to his history of neurological infection, he should probably go see a doctor. Will spares a moment to laugh at that, eyes flicking up to Hannibal's placid, unperturbed countenance. _I am seeing a doctor._

Hannibal tilts his head curiously as he studies Will. “I’m not sure what’s so amusing about the date, but to answer your second question, yes, you did leave your front door unlocked. I came over because I was worried. You weren’t answering my calls. You also didn’t answer when I knocked.”

With unsteady hands, Will pulls his phone out of his back pocket. Hannibal’s name shows up six times—two missed calls, four unread text messages. The amount isn’t abundant, because Hannibal generally respects Will’s desire for privacy, but it certainly proves that he’d been disquieted by Will’s silence. Even on his worst days, Will usually takes the time to tell his partner that he’s okay.

“I’m sorry.” He turns around to look Hannibal in the eye, squeezing the older man’s hands in reassurance. “The nightmares crept up on me after all.” Will wouldn’t blame Hannibal for calling it off right then and there. When he’d been in college, he’d had flings call it off for far less alarming dissociative episodes.

“I only wish that you would let me in,” Hannibal says, petting Will’s hair compassionately. “I don't want you to be cast out to sea alone with your thoughts without a lifeline.”

Will leans forward slightly, letting Hannibal tug him into a loose embrace. “You’re busy enough without having to deal with my problems.”

“It is a pleasure to share your company, Will, not a burden. When you’re feeling up to it, I would very much like to show you.”

Though Will currently has no interest in having sex, he’s intrigued by Hannibal’s words. “What do you mean?”

Hannibal smiles slyly, rubbing Will’s back, letting his voice come out like liquid smoke. “One does not remain a top-requested, high-class escort without picking up a few tricks.”

Will’s imagination runs wild with thoughts of Hannibal in wicked positions, doing all sorts of things they’ve never done before. He runs his thumb over Hannibal’s jaw, assuring himself that the man in front of him is real, that he’s going to make good on that promise sooner rather than later. “I’d like that.”

Eventually, they pull apart. Hannibal makes him something bland and boring by his standards—just some fish and broccoli—but it still tastes amazing, as his cooking always does. Will can’t fully relax yet, not until Jack’s case is closed, but he’s closer to feeling like himself than he has been all week.

* * *

It’s not often that Will and Alana are free at the same time nowadays. When she calls and invites him to dinner, he happily accepts. She mentions that Margot will be joining her, so he’s welcome to bring a plus one, but Hannibal's schedule happens to be excessively crowded. It’s the middle of the Spring semester, which means that his clinicals take up most of his free time. The madness will probably be over soon, though. He has plans to begin his residency in the fall, hopefully gaining his license to practice psychiatry the following year.

Alana does him the favor of picking a niche little three-star restaurant. Hannibal has offered to boost Will’s financial status on several occasions, but Will continues to staunchly refuse. On one notable instance, he had sarcastically asked, “What, is this supposed to be a backwards version of _Pretty Woman_? The street walker turns into the patron who trusses me up in fancy clothes?”

“I simply want you to feel free to ask at any time. What’s mine is yours,” Hannibal had replied.

Beautiful, wonderful Alana knows him well. It’s a nice place. The prices are affordable.

They touch on a variety of topics, including the bullshit openers that nobody _truly_ enjoys slogging through. The weather, politics, local events, the holidays. After that, they meander to more interesting horizons. What they’re all doing at work, swapping old stories they’ve told dozens of times, how their relationships are progressing.

Margot seems content to let Alana steer the conversation, lips curled up around a glass of champagne. The two of them look so happy together. It warms Will’s heart. God knows how much Alana deserves it.

When they turn to him for information about his partnership, Will sips on his whiskey, stalling for time. “Things are fine,” he finally mumbles, knowing that his cheeks are turning pink in mortification. “Honestly, I’m surprised things have been going so smoothly. I’ve had a couple panic attacks, but he’s handled them like—well, like a professional. Probably because he is.” He pokes his leftovers with a fork, scowling. It’s been a year since he requested Hannibal’s services as an escort for the first time, eight months since they started meeting up once a week, six months since they’ve made things official. Commitment isn’t usually this easy for him to abide by. “Now that I think about it, things might be going _too_ well. We never argue about anything. At worst, we have snarky philosophical debates that last for hours.”

Alana beams at Will, ever the optimist. “That’s great, Will. Don’t get yourself worked up over nothing. It seems like you really like this guy, that you get along well.”

“Mm,” Will absently agrees. He’s usually not this good at being _happy, _either. The other shoe’s going to drop one day. He’s not sure that he's prepared for it. Hannibal’s gotten him rather used to being pampered, showering Will with unconditional love.

_What the fuck._ He stands up in a rush, apologizing all over himself. His heart is racing a mile a minute. _Graham, what the actual, literal fuck._

He’s already using the goddamn l-word with a man he used to pay to suck his dick.

He stops to shoot a text off to Alana, profusely begging for her forgiveness. She’s kind enough to ask if he’s okay, telling him not to worry about running out of the restaurant like a jackass. Will fumbles with his keys, zipping off to the highway, letting his mind go blank, doing everything he can to shut out the fact that he'd associated Hannibal with such an abstract concept.

_Love_. Now that the word’s floated across his head once, he keeps latching onto it like a fly trapped on sticky paper. Part of the reason it’s so hard to come to terms with is because Will’s never _been_ in love before—therefor, how is he to assume that’s what this terrible, burning feeling in his chest is?

Will had loved his father in some inexplicable way. The man had been a quiet, blue-collar worker from a dirt-poor corner of Louisiana. He probably hadn’t wanted the burden of a child at the young age of nineteen, but he’d taken responsibility anyways.

Will's never met his mother. He assumes that the woman had pushed him out, delivered the baby into his father's waiting arms, and walked away. His dad had offered to help them connect, but Will had turned him down. He’d only ever needed one parent, the one who had gently wiped tears from his eyes when he’d gotten scrapes on his knees. The quiet evenings they’d spent tying fishing flies together had been more than enough for him.

This feeling isn’t like that one. It’s all-consuming. While Will would like nothing more than to drive until he hits the edge of the continent, staring off into the horizon, wondering if it could swallow him whole, his puttering Volvo pulls into Hannibal’s driveway like a cog's tooth catching its fillet in a wheel. All roads lead to home, or something like that.

Hannibal’s the problem. He’s also the solution. Will may be many things—quite possibly insane, socially maladjusted, gifted with an overactive imagination, paranoid, constantly suffering because of his empathy disorder—but he’s not a coward. He can’t run from this.

He rings the doorbell, fidgeting restlessly on the stoop. It takes a minute for Hannibal to arrive, likely because his house is huge and because he hadn't been waiting in the living room expecting company.

When he finally arrives, he doesn’t look nearly as disquieted as he should. Will assumes that Hannibal has become used to his bullshit at long last, learning to expect the unexpected out of his partner.

Will opens his mouth as his eyes rove over Hannibal’s body. He’s handsome, as always, dressed in a maroon coverall above off-white linen trousers. With soft wrinkles beginning to form on his face from age, dark locks streaked through with silver, and an inquisitive look on his face, Hannibal looks like the very picture of comfort. The words won't materialize. The seconds keep ticking by. The confession is lodged in his throat.

“Will,” Hannibal is calm, unconcerned. Will’s glad that he isn’t freaking out; it wouldn’t do any good for both of them to be fretting. “Would you like to come in? It’s rather cold outside.”

He nods because he still can’t speak. Hannibal presses the back of his right hand to Will’s forehead.

“Can I interest you in taking a bath? Your skin feels dry, and your temperature leaves much to be desired.”

He nods.

Thus, Will is shuffled up to Hannibal’s sleek bathroom. Hannibal goes about the business of running the water, filling the tub with some type of floral-scented oil, only touching the younger man when it’s time to divest Will of his clothing.

The whole process is tranquil in the sense that Will doesn’t have to do anything. Frankly speaking, he should probably be nervous about the fact that he’s letting Hannibal manhandle him, but there’s only enough time in the day to have one episode.

Once Will is naked, Hannibal gently urges him to step over the ledge of the tub, to sink into the steaming water. He takes a minute to settle. As soon as Will's shoulders grow slack, Hannibal cups water in his hand, using the liquid to slick Will’s curls back.

“I can leave you in here alone, if you prefer,” Hannibal says.

“No.” Will finally breaks his silence, half-heartedly aborting a motion to reach for Hannibal’s wrist. “Stay.”

“I’ll go fetch a sugar scrub for you, then.”

Hannibal undresses briskly. He slides in behind Will, which makes the other man realize exactly how large the tub is; it’s not a cramped fit with both of them inside the basin. They have ample room to stretch out their legs. Will could have several inches of space between his back and Hannibal’s chest if he were so inclined, but they remain pressed close.

Hannibal massages the coarse paste into Will’s skin, taking crusty, dead layers off of the top of it. The oil in the scrub makes Will feel luminescent, like he’s glowing from the inside out. After Hannibal has lifted Will’s arms and legs to complete the task, he leans back, folding his arms across Will’s abdomen.

“Something _has _to be wrong with you,” Will hums, burrowing further into the casual embrace. “People don’t just accept stuff like this without asking any questions.”

He can practically feel Hannibal raising an eyebrow, picturing the expression perfectly in his mind’s eye. “I wasn’t aware that I had to be off-kilter in order to accept my partner’s eccentricities.”

Eccentricities sound downright cute compared to the scene Hannibal’s been subjected to this evening. “I’ll figure you out one of these days.” It’s about the closest Will can get to saying _thanks,_ or _you're the best,_ or the forbidden words he still can't come to terms with aloud.

Hannibal chuckles. “I have never doubted your ability to unearth all of my secrets.”

For some reason, it feels like that’s Hannibal’s version of _you're not so bad yourself._

The rest of the evening passes in relative silence. Hannibal loans Will a pair of pajamas and a spare toothbrush.

As if Will hasn’t already begged for enough favors today, he asks Beverly to stop by his place to feed the dogs, explaining that something’s come up. There’s a spare key under a potted plant on the porch. Her only condition is that Will has to tell her about his mystery man in detail the next time they hang out. He accepts. It’s the least he can do. There’s no use in hiding anything anymore; he’s already swallowed the fact that he’s in too deep.

Falling asleep next to Hannibal feels like anchoring his ship to shore.

The next morning, he wakes up to the enticing smells of coffee and sizzling bacon. Feeling sheepish about the state he’d arrived at Hannibal’s house in the night before, he warily pads downstairs to the kitchen, wriggling his fingers at his partner in greeting. “Hey.”

Hannibal turns around to grace Will with a smile before looking back at his breakfast-in-progress. “Hello. Feeling better?”

“Yeah, loads. Thanks again.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Will takes a seat at the island, watching Hannibal work, mesmerized. All of his movements are compact and efficient. Everything is carefully paced out, much like a ballet. He cuts vegetables before sautéing them, juggling pans, spoons, and spatulas—it’s certainly an entertaining show.

“You do this every day? That’s a lot of food.”

Hannibal hums. “Alas, I do not. Having a guest inspires the mind.” Flipping something in his skillet, Hannibal’s back muscles tense, broadcasting his typically-hidden strength. Will unexpectedly longs to run his hands over them, shocked by the intensity of that desire. “You seem eager this morning.”

Will frowns. “How can you tell?”

The older man swivels around to face him, inhaling slowly, his nose lifted in display. “I have a very acute sense of smell.”

“You’re not honestly saying that you can smell that I’m horny.”

Hannibal replies with a grin. “You would be surprised at how obvious the scent of arousal is. Something akin to smoked salt, yet it’s still sweet, like spun sugar. I’m rather familiar with your body’s unique chemistry. One would assume that I am the person most qualified to pick up the fragrance of your enthusiasm.” He cuts the heat off when everything is finished—some obscenely fancy version of a fry-up, complete with wispy pieces of French bread leaning against a white ramekin. Inside of the small dish rests a dark red sauce. The bacon is garnished with a green herb that Will assumes is basil. “Perhaps when we’ve finished eating, we can discuss further plans for the afternoon.”

Remembering that it’s Friday, Will relaxes a little. They both try to keep the day free of other obligations so that they can spend time together unimpeded by papers to grade and medical work to attend to. Last September, Will had fought with both the Dean and his research supervisor to get Fridays off entirely. There are no observations due on the weekends, no classes to teach, and best of all, no open office hours to log.

Hannibal gives Will a brief exposé on their breakfast: how long the meat has been cured, how the sauce compliments all of the flavors, why poaching an egg is a stellar preparation, explaining why the arugula salad complements everything else, blah, blah. The food’s stellar; it’s always five-star quality. Hannibal is an excellent chef. He’s an excellent _everything_. That’s probably why Will keeps waiting around for the shit to hit the fan. Hannibal is so far out of his league, it isn’t funny.

Swallowing a mouthful of the cranberry reduction, Will stares down at his plate. “Why me?”

Dabbing a napkin at the corner of his lips, Hannibal says, “After breakfast, come back to the bedroom. I’ll answer you there.”

Anxiety and excitement battle for dominance in Will’s chest. He stifles both feelings forcefully. “Alright,” he says, using a piece of his toast to wipe up a runny egg yolk.

The two of them work together to clear the countertop of dishes. Will washes. Hannibal meticulously dries everything before returning each piece to its proper place. When they’re finished, Will picks at the fringes of the sweater he’s wearing with restless fingers. He nearly yelps when Hannibal puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Allow me a few minutes to get prepared, then feel free to join me.”

Will licks his lips, nodding in assent. He absently scrolls through old pictures of his dogs before attempting to read a scientific journal for exactly fifteen seconds. After that, he decides to roam around the kitchen, running his hands over the glistening surface of the marble countertops. The knife-stand looks particularly well-loved, given how glossy and smooth the wood is. Even the cabinet handles appear to have been polished. _Hannibal the neat freak,_ Will muses, chuckling at the thought of the man donning a smock for cleaning this place until it had sparkled.

The next time he pulls out his phone, he realizes that eleven minutes have passed. He pulls his hand away from the handle of the refrigerator, which he’d been planning to open to see what sorts of insane fruits, herbs, and spreads Hannibal kept in there. Will steels himself instead, heading to the stairs.

Each footfall feels heavy, leaden. The bedroom door is enticingly cracked open. Will creeps inside slowly, hearing ambient jazz music quietly playing in the background. There’s a small sitting area backed by the large bay window in Hannibal’s room, but the man is waiting in an armchair that doesn’t match the one flimsy wooden one across from him. Will nearly chokes at the implication.

He’s further taken aback by Hannibal’s wardrobe change. Hannibal has a black, sheer lace overlay on, but the top two buttons are unfastened, letting a sprawl of thick chest hair peek from the dip of the shirt’s V. His groin is covered, if only just—the scrap of cloth has mesh-like material, disguising exactly nothing. There are small straps from the top band and the side that accentuate the shape of his thighs.

“Have a seat,” Hannibal drawls, smirking from his perch, one leg crossed over the other at the knee, somehow managing to maintain his prim-and-proper dignity in lingerie.

Will hasn’t doubted his attraction to men for quite some time, but if he _had_ been torn before seeing this, he’d be throwing away his misgivings right about now. “It’s not even noon yet,” Will rasps as he plops himself down in his designated chair.

“This type of activity is not restricted to a specific time of day.” Hannibal looks so exceptionally pleased with himself. Will wishes he could be upset about that, but his backstabbing lizard-brain is too busy hissing, _yes, god yes, give it to me._ “Shall we begin?”

“It’s your show,” Will mumbles, willing himself not to get hard at the first press of Hannibal’s body against his own. He feels enormously overdressed in a sweater and loose cotton sleeping bottoms.

The music isn’t as discordant as Will initially figured it might have been. Hannibal’s motions are fluid and natural; he’s at ease doing this, just like he had been while cooking. He draws attention to his hips as he sways over to Will, seductively turning around so the younger man can take in the firm globes of his ass in the jock-strap. Will swallows.

Everything around them moves as if in slow motion. In time with the soft skittering of a wire brush over drums, Hannibal runs his fingers across the back of Will’s neck; then, he presses his palms down the length of Will’s torso. Will’s breathing begins to speed up.

What comes next is the salacious tease of Hannibal’s backside. His knees bend as he dips, making Will burn with the urge to touch and taste, to bury himself in Hannibal, but he refrains—this is an exercise of trust. Hannibal is doing this _for_ him. Will curls his fingers around the chair’s side rails to keep himself steady. After that, Hannibal uses Will’s legs for leverage, dipping down into a deep squat while facing his partner, squeezing Will’s cock a bit as he comes back to stand at his full height.

With the first measures of the dance completed, Hannibal places his palms on Will’s shoulders before sinking down. The ex-escort lets out a filthy moan as he arches his back, increasing their points of contact. He rocks up and down, only fully lifting himself off of Will’s groin twice. Rollicking piano notes accompany these motions. Will’s blue eyes fly open, his mouth parted as he gasps for air.

Hannibal impresses Will by hooking a leg over the younger man’s shoulder, arching his back until he reaches the floor. When Hannibal pulls himself back in, he lowers his leg, pressing their noses together. “Even an old dog has his tricks,” Hannibal whispers. Growing stiffer by the moment, Will can do nothing more than hum in agreement.

There are a couple more feats of acrobatics, a dancer’s grace in every careful bulge of his muscles. Hannibal is no slouch. He remains lithe and flexible, even at forty-three years of age. Everything comes to a halt after two or three minutes, when Will tentatively spreads his fingers out between the knobs of Hannibal’s spine. Hannibal allows it, responding by pressing two fingers to the outline of Will’s shaft through his trousers. Things quickly become senseless and frisky after that.

Will tries to shimmy out of his clothes, but Hannibal has to help him, momentarily climbing out of the chair to do so. Hannibal works hard to stay in Will’s lap while they kiss and rut, the bulk of two grown men making the wooden frame creak.

The adrenaline coursing through his veins enables Will to do something he hadn’t previously thought himself capable of. He lifts Hannibal up, dragging him to the bed. He’s helped, of course, by Hannibal tightening his hold, crossing his ankles at the small of Will’s back to brace himself, allowing Will to dig his fingers into the meat of his thighs for leverage.

A fancy bottle of lubricant sits on the nightstand. Will spares a moment to thank his partner. Hannibal really does think of everything.

Hannibal opens up, letting Will plunge into him. “There you are,” he breathes. Will relaxes, feeling desperately near to tears as he picks up the pace. He makes Hannibal’s eyes roll back in pleasure, pushing the jock-strap down and out of the way so that nothing can get in the way of their fervent coupling. “Do you still feel the need to second-guess yourself, even though you have evidence that you’re actively bringing me satisfaction?”

Will pauses for a moment. Hannibal’s chest is heaving, his cock hard and luridly red, precome dribbling from the slit. They’re united, both of them the very picture of debauchery with swollen lips, their shared breaths beginning to mingle. Before he can answer, Hannibal continues offering insights for Will to ponder over as he attempts to hit Hannibal’s prostate.

“It’s about more than the sex, of course,” Hannibal says, attempting to suck in fresh oxygen, mumbling at points, inching closer to orgasm. “You may lose time. You may even occasionally forget which persona you’re wearing, but I don’t. I see your vast intelligence, which, for whatever reason, you shy away from flaunting. You expertly profile criminals and catch them because you’re better than them at committing crimes, at least theoretically. You elevate their crafts. When you find yourself in the highest throes of doubt and self-loathing, you cast yourself into my arms, asking for absolution, but there is no wrongdoing for me to forgive, Will. I admire and adore those qualities in you.”

Idly, Will wonders what the hell he could do to get Hannibal out of his head. He’s awfully adept at tearing down Will’s painstakingly guarded mental forts. “Why are you so sure that’s a good thing? I could become too reliant on you. I could kill you right now, and you’d still be confident that I was doing the right thing.”

Hannibal smiles like the clouds have parted, like God himself has come from the heavens to bless his existence. “If you were to kill me, that would be providential. My death would be nothing more than an element to fuel your radiance.”

They come within seconds of each other, their body rhythms beginning to synchronize. It gets easier every time they have sex.

* * *

Springtime brings color to Baltimore. It’s a nice change from the dreary drag of winter, seeing fresh green leaves growing, flowers beginning to bloom.

Unfortunately, the warming weather encourages Will’s dogs to go out and roll in the mud. He calls them inside after their walk, resigning himself to spending his afternoon grooming the seven members of his furry family. Buster is the most annoying one to wrangle—he’s always jumpy and hyperalert, ears flicking up at the slightest noise.

After that chore has been completed, Will takes a long, hot shower before collapsing onto his bed. He wakes up to a resounding chorus of whines. Groaning, he cuts the fat off of some fairly lean meat, coarsely chops vegetables, and tosses the whole mess into a bowl with mineral supplements. Each of his dogs has their own food dish. They faithfully queue up at their stations, patiently waiting for Will to dole out their portions. He’s no Hannibal, but his little friends seem happy enough with the meal he’s prepared.

Something outside catches Buster’s attention. Will looks up from his phone when he barks, scurrying away from his food to go to the door to make more noise. For a moment, Will assumes there’s a squirrel or a cat on the porch, but a silhouette looms outside the window, much too large to belong to a woodland creature.

He curses under his breath, wishing he still had his service pistol. It’s been ages since he’s cleaned or loaded the shotgun he keeps mounted below the desk. Tiptoeing into the kitchen, Will remains very low to the ground, pulling a knife out of a drawer. It’s large and it’s been sharpened recently, courtesy of one finnicky European who had insisted upon having one decent utensil to use in Will’s kitchen. He’s overwhelmingly grateful for Hannibal’s nitpicky behavior at the moment, seeing as said knife is now the best weapon Will has to fight off an intruder.

The sound of breaking glass encourages the rest of his pack to stop eating and look up. Some of the snappier dogs growl and snarl, leaning back on their haunches, clenching their teeth as a visible warning.

The threat of seven mismatched mutts does nothing to deter the intruder—they kick the door open, lunging for Will’s throat, tackling him to the ground. Will plunges the knife into what he hopes is the man’s leg, earning a terrible howl for his efforts. He tries to pull himself back to get another attack in, but strong hands come around his neck first.

Gasping for air, his eyes bulge out. He blindly reaches for the hilt of the knife, clumsily managing to get his blood-slick fingers around it. This time, he goes for the gut, dragging it across the man’s abdomen with teary eyes. For a minute or so, he stares at his handiwork, staggered by a strange sense of accomplishment—he’s beaten the odds, ending up on top.

Coming back to himself, Will coughs, heartbeat frantic as he tries to get out from underneath the seizing body. “Hold on,” he hoarsely whispers, his voice irregular from being strangled. “Hang on, I’m gonna call you an ambulance.”

The man shakes his head.

Will ignores him, attempting to crawl away. A hand wraps around his ankle in a vice. “No,” the stranger manages to garble the word out this time, sounding desperate. “Even if I live, he’d kill me.”

“Who?” The man wheezes, vomiting out a disturbing amount of blood. Will had likely punctured his stomach, given the bright red color of the liquid. It’s not protocol, trying to shake the answer out of the stranger by force, but to be fair, Will’s adrenaline levels are through the roof—he’s frazzled. _“Who?”_

Instead of responding, the other man throws up again. Will trembles as he calls for help, rushing to stop the bleeding with an old tea towel and his own shirt. The light fades out of the intruder’s eyes even as Will tells the operator to _hurry, shit, please hurry, he’s dying_.

He feels numb, but not broken. He still feels like Will Graham, not one of the other dozens of warped men he’s hunted down, or been haunted by, over the years.

Still, Will desperately refuses to turn the light on to survey the scene.

Once more, taking a life had been inordinately easy for him. He’d done so under pressure, again, but guilt refuses to well up in his throat, not like it had the last time. This feels preordained, fateful.

Looking would cement that fact that Will had killed him, and, for a long moment, had been _thrilled_, flushed with the energy of winning the fight.

When the EMTs arrive, Will stands off to the side, letting them fuss over him as they load the limp body into an ambulance. All he feels is relief when they brighten the room up and he can see that the man isn’t Hannibal.

He barely stops a bitter laugh from tumbling out of his throat as they make their way to the hospital. _Ain’t that a bitch._ With blood cooling on his hands, Will’s topmost concern is for his lover’s safety—he can rest easy, because all he did was end someone’s life, and that someone wasn’t his boyfriend.

Will wonders what the prospective therapist will have to say about _that_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✧the song that i picture playing for the dance is _[my heart is for you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pwHhDoalzcY)_ by peter sandberg, but you're welcome to imagine any slow/smooth jazz in the bg, ofc ♡
> 
> ✧my tumblr: [**quillifer**](https://quillifer.tumblr.com)


	4. part IV: disclosure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life kicked my ass this week, so this chapter may have a couple spots of shoddy grammar. feel free to let me know. i'm probably gonna clean it up around december if you stop by to read it again in the future. ;) ♥♥♥

Will is discharged from the hospital after a couple of days of inpatient admission.

There’s bruising on his trachea, but no external markings—the doctors warn him not to be fooled by this, because it’s common for these types of injuries to have delayed reactions. Bloodflow, and therefor oxygen supply, to his brain had been restricted, if only for a few seconds. With a history of encephalitis, it’s likely that further complications could've emerged, so they keep him interned for a longer period of time than a typical minor assault victim.

Beverly is the first to find out about his brief stint in care, mostly because he has to ask someone to keep an eye on his dogs. He doesn’t want to text Alana or Hannibal at two in the morning. They're probably asleep by that time, or they should be. Beverly works the overnight shift at the precinct. Chances are she won’t get off until four or five anyhow. Of course, when she asks why the hell they need babysitting before the sun's come up, he’s begrudgingly forced to explain his situation.

She rushes over as soon as the dogs have been fed and let out to pee. An uncomfortable number of wires are hooked up to his person, monitoring his vitals. Beverly asks if he needs to file a report, to which Will says no. Two officers had already come by to take his statement, the older of the two blandly informing him that the other man, now identified as one Caleb Mallard, is dead, which Will had already known. The EMTs had done their best to resuscitate him on the ride over, but the blood loss had been too great. Mallard's organ systems had shut down one by one until his body had given up the ghost.

Freddie Lounds manages to trespass on his property to sneak illegal pictures of the crime scene, making bold, accusatory statements. She paints Will as a dark hero, defending himself, but at what cost? She pulls up all sorts of old dirt on him from his days as a cop, talking about his off-kilter behavior, his tendency to zone out, to lose himself in the heads of criminals. It’s crass. Every assumption she makes about him pisses him off. Having so many dogs does _not_ mean that Will is disguising a fervent desire to maim anything living, nor do the handmade fishing flies imply that he enjoys the act of gutting people.

Her wildest leap is where she speculates that he’s a likely suspect for having committed the recent string of murders in the midwest and northeast. Will openly laughs when he reads that. Him, the Chesapeake Ripper? He can barely tie his shoes to leave for work on time. What the hell makes Freddie think that he’s organized or methodical enough to put such artistic displays together?

When he talks to Beverly about it, she snorts. “It’s probably that look in your eyes.” She takes a hand off of the steering wheel to flex a finger over her brow. “I’m Will Graham, and I see dead people,” she mockingly says, attempting to echo Will’s low register.

“Fuck you,” he replies without any real heat.

“Not for nothin’, Graham, but you don’t have the right equipment for my tastes. Better luck next life.”

Will rolls his eyes at that, content to sit in silence as they finish the drive to his place.

He actually texts Hannibal the day after the break-in, if only to let the other man know that he’ll be off the grid for a few days. Hannibal offers to come and visit, but Will resolutely declines—he hates hospitals, hates being treated like a fragile piece of frail and sickly glass.

The next few weeks are a shitstorm. News outlets keep banging on his door for details and quotes. Nobody seems to know why Mallard had come to Will’s home that evening. As far as anyone can tell, there’s no connection between the two men. They hadn’t attended the same college. Mallard doesn’t have connections with New Orleans PD or Baltimore PD, two of Will’s old haunts. Mallard had been a run-of-the-mill electrician. He hadn’t been strapped for cash, hadn’t been desperate enough to break into a home in the middle of nowhere to steal valuables, selling them for a quick buck.

Will does his due diligence as a responsible citizen, fully cooperating with the police. Cop cars occasionally drive by, patrolling his area to make sure other nutjobs don’t get ideas. He doesn’t get a lot of sleep, but it isn’t because of nightmares—his headspace is surprisingly peaceful, but he can’t unwind. Every noise makes him jittery. It’ll be a few more days before the carpenters can come over to repair his front door, so the breeze rattling through his house doesn’t help matters.

After a month of trying to get his life back in order, Will is calm enough to call Jack. He doesn’t have any concrete reason to contact the FBI agent, but there’s a niggling suspicion in the back of his mind that won’t leave him alone.

“Hello?” When Jack answers, he sounds drained.

Will hesitates. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“It’s fine.” A strange hush lumbers between them. It stretches on for too long, so Jack somberly adds, “It’s just, it’s Bella. She’s sick. Real sick.”

Nausea makes Will’s stomach flip. He murmurs a heartfelt, “I’m sorry,” before running his fingers over the edges of his desk. He’s familiar with the way people skirt around saying the dreaded word—_cancer_.

“No need to apologize. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” Will is quick to quip back.

Jack sighs. “I know. I still can’t help feeling like a failure, because there’s nothing I can do for her, but enough about that. I’m sure you didn’t call me to play catch up. What’s wrong?”

He stands up, beginning to pace the length of the room, trying to find the right terms to use. “There was a break-in at my house,” Will starts, speaking slowly while the gears in his brain spin. “Guy shattered the windowpane of my front door before he kicked it off the hinges—forensics techs said he could’ve tried to turn the knob, but the space wasn’t wide enough for his arm to get through without cutting the shit out of it. He gave up on that pretty quickly, went for option two.”

“They ID the suspect yet?”

“His name’s Caleb Mallard. They’ve done all the legwork already. We don’t have a shared history and there’s no evidence saying that he was stalking me; not yet. They’re combing through his personal effects as we speak.”

The agent grunts. “I’m guessing he wasn’t there to steal your diamonds or your golden-plated golf clubs.”

“Ha, ha.”

“No priors?”

“None,” Will dryly replies.

“You wouldn’t have called me without a theory, so go ahead and spit it out.”

Sucking in a steadying breath, Will focuses his eyes on exactly nothing. “It’s going to sound crazy.”

“Just tell me, Will.”

He slowly exhales, letting the words spill out of his head. “I think the Chesapeake Ripper sent someone to kill me.”

Silence seems to make the time pass in slow motion, both of them breathing into the receivers quietly, hesitant to break it. Jack is the first one to yield. “Any particular reason why he would do that?”

Will can tell that Jack doesn’t believe him. Not completely. It’s exasperating. “Listen. This guy is an artist, a savant. He’s constantly looking for stimulation, for inspiration. I haven’t been in the public eye for a long time, but Lounds caught me peeking at his work when I came to profile him for you in Ann Arbor. Maybe that’s where he caught my scent, maybe he knew me from before, I don’t fucking know. But Mallard said someone was going to kill him if he left my house alive. Presumably, that means someone sent him to attack me. They wanted to see what I would do. Most of the criminals I put away as a Detective Sergeant are still behind bars. They were low-lives, not the type of men to wait years—_decades_, even—for revenge.”

When Jack falls quiet this time, Will can tell that he’s beginning to come around. “You think we should be looking for prison escapes in the northeast area, see if anybody that you collared is loose?”

“No, no—the Ripper’s too neat for all of that. He’s someone without a record, someone squeaky-clean. We’ll never find him using any of the old-school methods. This guy’s a new breed of criminal, and I don’t know why, but he seems to be obsessed with me. Specifically, he adores the idea of me committing acts of brutality, becoming more like him.”

“You’re nothing like him,” Jack pointlessly reassures him. “You performed acts of self-defense under duress and assault.”

“I know, Jack,” Will snaps, tapping his fingers on the wood as he slows to a stop. “That doesn’t mean he’s wrong. I didn’t _need_ to kill those men, I chose to. Still,” he hurries along, hoping that Jack won’t cut him off again, “regardless of my feelings on the matter, I’d say we finally have something solid on him, wouldn’t you?”

“Which is?”

“He’s taking the time to say hello to me, flaunting his abilities. He’s giving me a chance to see his face. I should give him a reason to contact me again.”

He can practically hear Jack frowning in response. “You’re not saying you’re going to hurt someone else to get his attention.”

“No. I’m saying that I want the FBI to announce that I’m officially on the case. That’ll whet his appetite.”

Jack hums, pleasantly surprised. “_Are_ you officially on the case?”

“Hell no. But let him think so. I’ll bait him for you, and you’ll get the glory of having America’s most recent prolific serial killer under your thumb. It’s a pretty good deal, don’t you think?”

Begrudgingly, the agent is forced to agree.

* * *

Between the home invasion, the following stint in the hospital, and ongoing bickering phone calls with Jack, Will hasn’t gotten to spend a lot of time with his partner. Baltimore is beginning to get muggy again. He flees from the confines of his house on a Tuesday, hoping to catch Hannibal at an opportune time so they can enjoy an evening together.

He decides to hit the highway moments after sending a warning text—it isn’t the first time he’s dropped by relatively unannounced and it probably won’t be the last. It’s rare that Hannibal isn’t in by ten o’clock, looking bushed after standing on his feet all day for one reason or another. Usually, the two of them fool around a little before falling into bed; Hannibal reads until he becomes drowsy, petting Will’s hair until they both go to sleep.

It’s Will’s awful luck that Hannibal isn’t home for once. _Out at the opera_, he texts about five minutes after he’s started the drive from Bowie to Baltimore. He curses—he feels like such a shitty boyfriend. Hannibal had invited him to the damn thing. Will had declined, stating, “That I would’ve felt like a clown, dressed in an old, ill-fitting suit, trying to fit in with the upper crust city-slickers listening to old ballads in Italian, or French, or whatever-the-fuck.”

Hannibal had gracefully accepted Will’s less-than-polite refusal, assuring him that the opera was not for everyone. _That man has the patience of a saint_. It isn’t the first time such a thought has crossed his mind.

Still, for whatever reason, he doesn’t pull a U and head home. He stands outside of Hannibal’s house like a spurned paramour, contemplating breaking in. Is it healthy to consider that prospect? Definitely not. But the idea takes root and it won’t let Will go. He just wants to breathe in the spaces that Hannibal inhabits, absorbing the man’s essence simply by standing inside. It occurs to him that he could have that. He could ask Hannibal for a spare key. He could take a leap and talk about moving in.

Or, he could roam around bars in Baltimore, frantically checking his phone for the time to see if it’s late enough for Hannibal to return. No one has ever accused Will of making smart life decisions.

When he starts to get well and truly sloshed, he makes the mistake of calling his best friend on her day off. “This better be good, Graham.”

“I’m lonely,” he slurs, knocking back another shot of whiskey. “Hannibal went to some fancy music thing without me.”

“I’m sure he asked you to go and you turned him down.”

“I would’ve been bad company. I always smell like dogs and fish. I don’t think his friends would like me very much.”

Beverly scoffs. “Jesus. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You adore that man. Go with him next time, or so help me, I’ll kick your ass.”

He frowns down at his empty glass. “I don’t like your tone, Katz. Sounds cocky.”

“I sure like _you_ a lot better when you’re getting your weekly dose of cock.”

“I’m telling every lesbian in Baltimore that you’re straight and taken.”

Sucking in a theatrically-hurt breath, Beverly playfully hisses, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Bye, Bev.”

“Drive safe, dickhead.”

It is due to luck alone that he makes it to Hannibal’s driveway an hour later, stumbling out of the car and zig-zagging his way to the door. Any cop worth their salt wouldn’t have even bothered with asking him to perform a breathalyzer test if he’d gotten pulled over. He smells like a liquor store and he can barely add two plus two together without getting a headache.

When he presses the chime, Hannibal mercifully appears. “Will,” he says in greeting, holding a hand out to steady his partner’s unstable gait. “Come in and have a seat. I’ll grab you a glass of water.”

Will’s vision swims as Hannibal returns, encouraging him to take slow gulps of the cool liquid. “I wanted to go, but I di—didn’t want to embarrass you. If people didn’t know you weren’t gay, or if I was too _uncultured_ or something. I feel like I always fuck this sort of shit up.”

Hannibal hums, gently smoothing hair away from Will’s eyes. “We should discuss this in the morning when you’re sober enough to remember the conversation.”

Warm hands run a washcloth over his sweat-slick skin and change him into fresh clothes. He doesn’t fight the tide when it washes over him, blissfully slipping under the waves and into oblivion.

The following day, Will’s eyelids fight with the thick rheum caked onto them as he blinks into awareness. His throat feels like something died in it and his mouth is papery-dry. When he reaches out to slap the nightstand, feeling around for his glasses, he only finds a lamp stand. He groans, remembering where he is. _Right_.

“I would bid you a good morning, but I’m certain that you are not feeling particularly cheerful,” Hannibal says, a wry expression on his face. “Just a moment. You’re probably thirsty.”

Before Will can croak out that he doesn’t have to do that, Hannibal has already gotten out of bed and padded softly down the hall. He returns with a glass of something heavenly.

“I put some honey and cucumbers in a jar with spring water yesterday evening. I assumed, judging by the state of your inebriation when you arrived at my doorstep, that you would require something soothing come daylight.”

Will takes a long sip, keeping his eyes pointed down at the sheets in mortification. “Thanks.” Once again, he realizes how sincerely terrible he is at this whole relationship business. He clears his throat, trying again, forcing himself to look Hannibal in the eyes, a bashful, cautious smile on his lips. “Seriously, thank you. I didn’t mean to ruin your night.”

Hannibal places a hand over Will’s, shaking his head. “You did no such thing. The only thing you did was make me aware of my shortcomings as a partner. I have made you feel inadequate in some way, and for that, I apologize.”

The younger man could kick his drunken self in the head. “You didn’t, I was just. Doing that thing I do. Overthinking shit. Overcomplicating things for no reason.”

“Still,” Hannibal insists, squeezing Will’s fingers. “What other people think of our relationship is of no consequence to me. It only matters what _you_ think of it, and I never want you to believe that you are beneath me. We are equals in our passions, and I want nothing more than for you to bask in your truth.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that,” Will croaks. “It makes me feel ridiculous, like you’d pardon me for doing damn near anything, so long as I was confident about it. If you build me up too much, I’ll start to feel invincible. Insane men can get intoxicated on that kind of power.”

“But you are not insane, Will. It is my firm belief that you are more in control than you have _ever_ been,” Hannibal assures him.

He barks out a bitter laugh in response. “Alright, Dr. Lecter. If you say so.”

The two of them spend the rest of the day lazing around the house and when Will drags himself back to his place, he feels as though he’s leaving the most important piece of himself behind in Hannibal’s bed.

* * *

Will’s life is blissfully quiet for all of two weeks.

The semester is ending, his trial date is getting finalized, and he gets to enjoy spending time with Hannibal most evenings. Then, exactly five days before shit hits the fan, Jack sends Will a text to inform him that the FBI is finally going to enact his plan.

It makes national headlines. Will’s full-color photograph is splashed across the homepage of almost every major news outlet, complete with his career history and his contributions to the unsolved cases that’ve taken the U.S. by storm. If the Ripper is as much a narcissist as Will thinks he is, he’ll make a move fairly quickly.

Whoever this guy is, he keeps up with recent events. Hell, he probably even reads the trash that Lounds puts up on Tattle Crime. Will knows exactly which quote of his is going to get under the Ripper’s skin the most quickly.

_“Next time, I won’t just chew your gifts up, I’ll spit them out.” _If their perp really is an artistic cannibal, he’s going to take that thinly-veiled insult to heart. He’s been killing people to turn them into sculptures, and if he’s been eating them, there’s no doubt in Will’s mind that he’s been crafting them into dishes worthy of applause.

For a moment, his brain runs with that train of thought. Is he eating alone? Will frowns. He hasn’t considered that the murderer might be cooking for an audience. It makes sense. He’s been taking fairly common meat for plating—kidneys, livers, flanks, etc.

It makes him think of Hannibal and he hurriedly shakes that thought out of his brain. This line of work always makes him consider the worst-case-scenario, which is probably why Will had avoided diving back into it for so long. The only reason he’s working with Jack is because this is for the greater good. A few months of uncomfortable associations and bitter daydreams would be worth it if they could manage to put the Chesapeake Ripper behind bars.

Ironically, he’s helping chop some root vegetable for Hannibal’s meal preparation when his phone begins to buzz incessantly. He ignores it the first two times, cursing and washing his hands the third time it rings. He presses the call button, partly worried and partly annoyed. “What?”

“Another body dropped in Delaware, Will,” Jack says. “It’s him.”

_Shit_. Will’s phone almost slips out of his hand and clatters to the floor, but he grips it tightly to keep it from falling. “He’s not usually this impatient. You’re sure?”

Jack grunts. “I think your hunch was spot-on. He’s trying to talk to you. That means I need you to get out there and see the scene for yourself.”

He flicks worried blue eyes up at Hannibal, who smoothly edges out of the room, giving Will a modicum of privacy. “If you’re already sure it’s him, what do you want me to do?”

“Come look at his fucking love letter to you and tell me what the hell is going on,” Jack snaps, terminating the phone call briskly.

Will sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Hannibal peeks around the corner and Will turns to him, openly contrite. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

Hannibal pulls him into a loose hug, kissing the top of Will’s head. “May you return to me in one piece and of one mind. Be careful not to let this killer bite you down to the marrow.”

He chuckles. “Ha. If I could see this guy clearly enough for him to get a bite of me, it’d be too late. I get the feeling that once he has me between his teeth, he won’t let me go.”

“And who could blame him, especially when you are such a delight to taste?” Hannibal muses, eyes sparkling with mirth. Will can’t help smiling back at him, though joy is currently the furthest thing from his mind. “Safe travels.”

With that said, Will climbs into his shitty old Volvo and drives back to his house, texting to ask Alana if she’ll stop by and feed the dogs in the evening.

* * *

Seaford is pretty pleasant this time of year. It’s a sleepy little town, which means nobody saw anything and that the security is far more lax than it would be in a sprawling metropolitan area.

Before Will can get in to view the body, he has to cross swords with his greatest enemy once again—Freddie Lounds, in the flesh. Everything about her is so obnoxious, from the glimmering bronze curls of her hair to her shiny stilettos. He’d give just about anything to put her out of her self-aggrandizing misery.

“Lounds,” he grouses.

“Graham,” she volleys back. “So tell me, how’s it feel to be trading barbs with a psychopath? Seems like the two of you are old friends.”

His icy blue eyes narrow. “I’m guessing you’ve already gotten a glimpse of the scene without permission—which is still _illegal_, by the way.”

“I was escorted by a police officer,” she says, batting her eyelashes in a façade of innocence.

Will rolls his eyes. “Under false pretenses, I’m sure. Glad to see that you’re still living up to your reputation as a cop killer.”

Lounds puts a hand to her chest, feigning distress. “Me? I wouldn’t hurt a fly. You, on the other hand, already have two lives on your conscious. How’s it feel to finally unleash the beast?”

He spins on his heel, fixing her with the darkest glare he can muster. “If you’re so convinced that I have the mind of a murderer, then why do you keep poking and prodding me? If I _was_ going to kill someone in cold blood, you’d be the first goddamn person on the list, Lounds.”

She visibly shrinks back at that, if only for a moment. Will suddenly realizes that he’d managed to scare her—_good._ The minute that word crosses his mind, he shakes it out, scowling at the violent direction of his thoughts.

“That was out of line,” he mutters. “Look, this whole case has me rattled. Just let me through, give the boys in blue a chance to catch the bastard.”

Lounds puffs out her fragile chest, false bravado making her tone soft. “What happens if you catch him first?”

Will shrugs. “I’ll figure it out when I get there—_if_ I ever figure out a way to catch him.”

Once he steps into the dilapidated church building, he immediately figures out why Jack had called it a love letter. The corpse resembles him in a way, though the body very clearly belongs to a woman. She has dark brown curls falling over pale cheeks, gray-blue irises nearly swallowed whole by her death-blown pupils. Her ribs have been cracked and spread open, blatantly exposing her heart. The lungs have been removed to further enhance the picture, and her hands are splayed over her groin, broadcasting a sense of modesty.

Jack hands him a piece of paper once he has gloves on. “Forensics still has to take a closer look, but there’s nothing distinct about it. It’s printed on copier paper, standard letter size, and the ink doesn’t seem special.”

_The progress of an artist is a continual self-sacrifice, a continual extinction of personality._

_-T.S. Eliot_

Will swallows. Something about the lilt of the words feels familiar. He’s well-acquainted with this type of insight. Staying true to himself, being all that he can be. Evolving. Gaining confidence.

It is only when Jack shakes him that he realizes he’s been zoning out. “Will?”

“Sorry,” he says, rushing outside to dry-heave. “I have to go.”

“Will? _Will!_”

He wants to be wrong. He so desperately, urgently wishes to be wrong, that his suspicions are off-base, but it makes too much fucking sense.

He’s an ex-surgeon. An artist—Will’s seen his sketchbooks, the way he softly drags a pencil across paper. A brilliant cook. An intelligent sadist, an openly verified detail. Dedicated, endlessly patient, gently encouraging Will to become more comfortable with death and disorder. Christ, all of the _puns. _He probably thinks he’s been very clever, leading Will along by the nose this whole time.

_Oh god_, he thinks, frenzied and panicked, verging on hyperventilating. _I fell in love with a serial killer._

* * *

He ignores all of Jack’s phone calls. He taps his left foot restlessly on the mat while he races down the highway, fumbling his way to the porch and jabbing his index finger into the chime. Hannibal answers the door, looking pristine and unruffled as always. Will could choke him.

Instead, he throws all of his pain and distress into a heavy punch. Hot, angry tears well up in his eyes. “You lied to me,” Will rasps. “I should’ve known—I _did_ know. Nobody normal would’ve put up with me for so long.”

Hannibal wipes the blood dripping from his nose with a handkerchief, offering Will a tender smile. “I haven’t lied. I have obfuscated the truth on occasion, perhaps, but lying outright? No.”

“You’ve put my dick into the same mouth you use to eat people.” A horrible fact suddenly dawns on him. “You’ve fed human remains to my dogs. You’ve probably fed them to me.”

“All of you seemed to enjoy said experiences,” the older man replies, his voice lofty and amused. “As far as I can recall, you’ve been quite complimentary of my culinary skills _and_ the deftness of my tongue in the bedroom.”

Will crudely rubs his palms against his eyes, imploring his body to stop the waterworks. “Did you find targets while you were working as an escort?”

Hannibal hums, heels clicking against tile as he fetches a box of tissues for Will to use. “Yes, although the two were not directly correlated. That would have been bad business. You should know as well as I do that I have never hurt any of my clients.”

He sniffs, sinuses clogged with mucus, mockery heavy on his tongue. “Not unless they asked you to.”

“Exactly.”

Shuddering, Will drags himself over to the couch, slumping his shoulders. “Why keep me around? You should’ve known it was dangerous. I used to chase down your kind for a living.”

Hannibal turns his nose up at that, offended. “I prefer not to be lumped together with the common criminal.”

Will laughs. “Right. Of course not. Arrogant prick.” Hannibal offers Will the toothy grin he’s usually so fond of. He sighs. “When were you going to kill me?”

“In an ideal world, never,” Hannibal says. “However, life is rarely so kind. Whenever I felt that you had gotten too close would be the answer, but I had hoped to embark upon a more pleasant endeavor.”

The younger man swallows at that. “You _wanted_ me to kill Mallard. You sent him to me as a sacrifice; he was a test. Why?”

“I wanted to examine your affinity for righteous violence. You passed.” Hannibal cautiously holds his palm out. The oh-so-human gesture warms Will. It’s wrong, everything about this is wrong, but Hannibal has had Will’s heart in his hands for the better part of two years. He cradles Will’s jaw softly, running the pad of his thumb across Will’s cheek. “You’ve never seen how beautiful you can truly be and I have long yearned to view you covered in blood. Do you know very dark it can appear in the moonlight? I wanted you to emerge victorious, to feel that thrum in your veins. You may not have said so in as many words, but I know it must feel good to you. Killing. One exhibits an almost ethereal amount of control when one takes a life. You lust after that sense of authority.”

Will sputters. “I didn’t, I wasn’t…” _Satisfied._ “Everything just happened so fast. I didn’t enjoy it. What I did, it was—_ugly_.”

“You could improve upon your design. I would allow you to.”

He suddenly shoves at Hannibal’s chest, furious all over again. “You would let me ram a knife into your chest with a smile, leave me to rot in a cell, and be thrilled to bits that I finally _embraced my truth_, or whatever horseshit it is that you usually say. There’s no concrete evidence tying you to the crimes. You haven’t given a confession on record. It’d be your word against mine and you’d be dead.”

“Or, you and I could conquer this world, letting nothing stand in our way.”

The fight is sucked out of Will with those words. He has to admit, it sounds enticing, but _Christ_. Hannibal is talking about, or rather, implying, that the two of them should join hands and murder people together. It goes against everything he’s ever stood for, against everything that modern society and upright citizens strive towards—benevolence towards one’s fellow man and peace on earth. Hannibal might dress it up, but they’d be butchers, plain and simple.

He feels queasy. “I don’t know. I’m not like you,” Will blurts out. “I feel guilty about not feeling guilty. I can’t just turn the empathy thing off like a switch. Besides, consider the repercussions for getting caught.” Knowing that his eyes are puffy and red, he turns to the man responsible, scowling. “I sure as hell don’t want to go to prison, and I don’t think I could bear the thought of you being thrown into a cage.”

Hannibal turns up his hands, as if to say, _c’est la vie. _“Being treated like a circus animal in a psychiatric institution or within governmental confines is of no consequence to me. My mind palace is vast, and I am exceptionally creative. I’ve seen you in many of its rooms, looking like Adonis himself; that is, if he had been a languishing angel of death.”

There is a long period of silence. The strangest thing is, the air isn’t fraught with tension. Will feels as calm and at home as he always does when he’s sharing Hannibal’s space, like he’s welcome and loved and precious. Hannibal shouldn’t be the Ripper. It’s not fair.

“How would you do it?” Will doesn’t have to clarify. “If you had to.”

“I would make it sweet, albeit painful,” Hannibal murmurs, tucking a stray lock of Will’s dark curls behind his ear. “I would spend the entire evening lavishing you in affection, plying you with high-quality liquor. Whiskey, your drink of choice.” His hands continue to roam over Will’s shoulders, over his back, and down the length of his thighs, where Will’s traitorous body is starting to react to the sensuous touch. “After bringing you to the edge of orgasm, I would wrap my fingers around your neck.” Hannibal visibly demonstrates. Will’s breath hitches; he’s forced to shift a little bit to keep his half-hard dick from becoming too prominent in his jeans. “Then, I would apply pressure to the length of your neck. It would be slight at first, then gradually sharper. With your body pliant from release, it would be easy—you would be soft, open, and trusting. You would likely ejaculate from the rush of being asphyxiated.”

Will can picture it vividly. He moans. “How would you get rid of the body?”

“I wouldn’t,” Hannibal promises. “I would honor every part of you. Crush your bones into glue and create a papier-mâché figurine from that. Freeze large portions of your loins; serve the delicate organs at a party. However, even as I partook of your flesh, I would mourn you. If you believe nothing else of me, know that is true. The depth of my affection for you is inconvenient.”

His eyes flutter closed without his consent. “Sounds intimate.”

“Squeezing the life out of someone often is.”

Will laughs. He laughs until he’s laughed himself sick, vomiting all over Hannibal’s expensive rug, and then his partner helps him hobble to the bathroom to take a shower. He eventually collapses on the mattress.

It should concern him, that he’s so at ease falling asleep in a murderer’s bed, but what’s the use in worrying? Either Hannibal will kill him or he won’t. There’s no sense in crying over spilled milk.

* * *

The next morning, Will scrabbles together a harebrained excuse for his flighty behavior the day before. He tells Jack, “I saw something, okay? It felt like a hallucination. It’s probably because this shit makes me crazy, which I’ve told you a hundred times before. I’ll have a clearer profile drawn up for you later,” and then he hangs up. The excuse won’t last long. Jack is not a stupid man. Jack knows that the calling card had been personal, that Will’s reaction had been emotionally-fraught, and he’s going to badger the truth out of Will or die trying. Will has bought himself a day or two by being the first to reach out.

He toys with the idea of turning Hannibal in. He decides against it once—twice—six times, before he realizes he’s pussyfooting around the problem. At his core, he’s just too curious. He has to play the game, even at the risk of getting burned.

The right thing to do is to act like the hero, to take a bargain plea, to say that he knows nothing, that Hannibal had slipped by him unnoticed the whole time until he’d messed up and given himself away. Something he’d said, something he’d done.

Will can’t do that at all. The whole idea is unsavory.

He wants to know what Hannibal’s counter-offer is. He wants to peek at the other side of the veil. That means he has some digging to do, that he and Hannibal need to talk, or, more concisely, to bicker and debate, trading philosophies in lyrical language. Will doesn’t consider himself much of a musician or a poet, but he’s gotten good at echoing the highs and lows in Hannibal’s speech modulation, likely because they spend so much time together.

It takes a while for them to clear up their schedules. Will has to tend to his dogs, lie to Alana about what happened in Delaware, text Beverly to let her know he’s still alive, and likewise, Hannibal has schoolwork to attend to, medical boards to contact.

_Two killers sitting down for coffee,_ Will bitterly thinks as he turns into Hannibal’s driveway. _Just another day in the life_.

Hannibal has his battle armor on—ludicrously enough, he has on an entire three-piece suit, complete with an array of wild patterns, a bold tie, and a pocket square. Will’s freshly-ironed slacks and button down feel laughable in comparison, but the concept is the same. He has contacts on today, pomade in his hair forcing his curls to behave. Neither of them are here to flirt today, to mess around.

When he takes a seat, Will feels like he’s in an office for a counseling session. Likewise, Hannibal assumes fantastic posture across from him, crossing one long leg over the other. “So,” he opens, “Where shall we begin?”

Will centers himself, drawing on his observations of Hannibal’s reserved nature to exude a preternatural sense of calm, of control. “What gave it away? What made you think that I had potential?”

“You have never shied away from brutality. In fact, you admire my ability to draw out your latent passion for bloodshed.”

He frowns. “That’s it?”

Hannibal shrugs, the creases at the corners of his eyes indicating the depth of his pleasure. “What more conviction does one require, dear Will?” He pretends to pick at a piece of lint for Will’s benefit, putting on humanizing airs so he doesn’t seem too blank, too flat. “No one forced you to serve and protect. No one forced you to deliver death blows to your enemies. One can have a natural talent for it, a predilection. From our second or third meeting, I had an inkling that you were drawn to power and shamelessness, hence why you so quickly became enamored with me, a middle-aged, self-assured man selling his body. Perhaps we were destined to cross paths. I found you endlessly fascinating, mostly because you refused, and continue to refuse, to see that you have a hidden side. A dour, dark inner nature. The force of your imagination would lend itself well to the craft. It requires a great deal of creativity to develop those scenes, you know.”

Will chuckles, responding with deep sarcasm. “I never would’ve guessed.”

“Great acts of cruelty can only be committed with great amounts of empathy.”

He rests his chin on his fist. “You can’t honestly sit there and tell me that you viewed your victims as equals.”

The older man smiles. “No. They were indecorous, banal, insipid creatures. Swine overdue for the slaughter. I took care of them. I simply cannot tolerate discourtesy.”

Will snorts. “I’m rude to you all the time.”

Hannibal grins. “You are fortunate that I find your behavior so charming. The world is more fascinating with you in it. It would be a shame to have to kill you, especially when you were finally starting to become so interesting.”

The conversation trails off momentarily. Their barbed words hang in the air, ready to continue the rally whenever someone’s prepared to slam out a shot. Will starts this time, folding his hands in lap. “What’s the worst-case scenario?”

“I kill you, put most of your body in storage, and then I grieve. Many people will interrogate me until they are blue in the face, scouring every inch of this house for evidence, but I wouldn’t leave anything unduly incriminating. Finding your hair and bodily fluids here would lend credit to my role as a melodramatically concerned significant other.”

“They’d take your prints, though,” Will admonishes him. “You’d be the most likely suspect since you’d be the person who last saw me alive. Even if they didn’t find anything concrete, they would always wonder if you were hiding something.”

“Well,” Hannibal drawls, “To be fair, you’ve always been curious about that, and now you know that I have been. The suspicion alone won’t lead the FBI to the truth—they’ll have to rely on intuition. Even if they keep agents posted on me at all times, following my every footstep, they would eventually run out of resources. I can be quite tenacious. I’d wait them out.”

“Could take years.”

“Then I would savor every second of my hard-won freedom, redoubling my efforts to produce solid alibis in the future. I would become well-acquainted with your friends, assure them of how miserable your death has made me. We’d bond, I would move on, and I might lure in another aesthetically pleasing creature to use as my patsy.”

Will is once again reminded that Hannibal is an exceptional planner. _You really do think of everything_. Drawing in a deep inhale, he sharply holds Hannibal’s focused gaze. “Best case?”

“_Best_ is disputable. It would be more accurate to say _less painful_, for both of us.”

He glares at that. “I don’t _need_ you, Hannibal.”

“No, you don’t.” Hannibal stretches his neck absently. “You have always been fiercely independent, and therefor unpredictable. I’m sure you could go on licking your wounds, seeking a challenge, but you would see me in the shadows of other people, concealing your perilous temperament from them. Nobody else will ever make you feel as accepted for your inclinations, nor make you feel as _alive_ as I do.”

The younger man pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re getting off-topic.”

Hannibal holds out a hand. Will warily stares down at it. “I can show you the breathtaking vistas the world has to offer, help you break free of your chrysalis. Give yourself a chance to take on my point of view first-hand instead of chasing the ghost of me.”

Will stands up, his fingertips centimeters away from Hannibal’s. “What if I see it and I decide I’m not ready? What if I push you away?”

“I’m giving the opportunity to know me,” Hannibal murmurs, letting his palm hover just above Will’s. “_You_ decide whether you’ll let me have my freedom or if you’ll put the noose around my neck.”

He doesn’t back down. He doesn’t scream. Will lets their hands come together in a soft handshake and then he falls forward into Hannibal’s chest, drained. “Okay,” he whispers at last, wrapping a hand around Hannibal’s nape.

* * *

Before Hannibal can arrange their ‘date’, Will has to get things squared away with Jack.

“It’s poetry,” Will tells him, but that much should be obvious. “Eliot was a modernist, one of the great writers of the early twentieth century. The message was straightforward—he’s trying to serenade me, win me over to his side. See the beauty in his madness.”

Jack grunts. “And you’re going to let him continue doing that so we can use you as bait.”

The _gall_ of this man. Will’s almost impressed by his chutzpah. “No,” he slowly drones, drawing the syllable out at length. “I’m going to get the hell out of dodge before I wind up in a ditch.”

The FBI agent is disgruntled, to say the least. “What happened to your master plan?”

“My _life_ happened. Listen, I’m starting to settle down. That’s all I’ve been trying to do since I hung up my uniform. If this guy’s trying to pit me against the scourge of the earth so that I’ll kill again, I need to stay as far away from this mess as possible. For fuck’s sake, we’ve confirmed that he’s obsessed with me. I _should_ go into the witness protection program.”

“You’re too deep in this to back out now; he’s already gotten in your head.” In lieu of winning Will over gently, Jack’s decided to go the alternative route of bullying him into submission. “The public is counting on us to finish the job.”

“I’m not your bloodhound,” Will snarls. “I’m sorry. Find someone else to do your dirty work, Jack.”

“This isn’t over, Will.” It’s never over with him. Unfortunately, the other man is correct to be wary of him now. Will’s morality is currently at an all-time low, considering the company he keeps. “If he tries to contact you again, let me know.”

“Sure.”

That said, they mutually terminate the call.

Hannibal tells Will that they can’t rush perfection—the inspiration must strike; the timing is key. They spend their evenings like they always have, wiling away the leisurely silences with books in hand, scrolling through their phones to absently.

They don’t have sex very often anymore. Will can’t get himself in the mood. When he _remembers_ his dry spell and the reason for it, he gets restless. He feels like Hannibal’s voice is ricocheting off of the walls of his skull, seeping into his skin like poison, but he’s being bias. Hannibal doesn’t take, doesn’t oppress. He cajoles, persuades, and teases the bitter truth out of Will, spurring him on.

If he joins Hannibal in this, it’ll be on his own terms. For now, he just wants to see if he has the appetite.

He’s surprisingly unperturbed about the notion in his everyday life. He has lunch with Beverly, assuring her that everything is still great with his relationship, and placates Alana with texts about his dogs or about the ridiculous places he winds up eating dinner.

Summer rolls by and Autumn tiptoes to full effect, the leaves turning yellow and red before fluttering to the ground. It’s a peaceful Sunday afternoon when Hannibal joins Will on the couch, offering him a steaming cup of tea. “Are you free on Friday evening?”

It’s mostly a rhetorical question. Will usually keeps the day open. “Yeah, why?”

“We should embark on our hunt this weekend,” he says, dropping the hint like he’s putting a light garnish on a meal. “If you’re amenable.”

Will swallows, heart suddenly racing a mile a minute. “I’m guessing I don’t get to the know the criteria for who winds up under your knife.”

“I _have_ told you before, but perhaps you weren’t listening very closely. That’s alright. You were under quite a bit of stress at the time.” Hannibal smiles. “Whenever possible, one should endeavor to eat the rude.”

_Fucking hell._

Before this, Will had considered himself fairly petty, but it’s nice to know there’s someone out there who’s even more spiteful and bitter than he is.

It’s an exceedingly average Friday in Baltimore. The clouds are covering the moon. The air is damp and cool. Hannibal slides out of his Audi in the dead of night, encouraging Will to keep himself hidden in the backseat. He had apparently taken the time out of his busy schedule to sabotage his prey’s muffler—he’d made neat work of it. The police won’t find much to indicate tampering; it’ll appear organic. A large woodchip here or there plugging up the exhaust pipe, a loose bolt under the body of the vehicle.

Will mentally checks off boxes. Everything he’d told Beverly all those months ago, he’s now confirming with his own eyes. He could build a legitimate case against Hannibal with this evidence.

He won’t, though.

After the man lets his guard down, Hannibal wrangles him to the ground and chokes him until he’s unconscious. His hair is immaculately slicked down, covered by a bonnet to prevent anything from slipping free and contaminating the scene. Two layers of vinyl gloves are wrapped over his fingers to prevent latent prints from forming on the victim’s skin.

Once he’s been packed away on this long stretch of highway shadowed by thick woodlands, Hannibal lithely slips back into his car, happy as a clam. Will buckles his seatbelt with baited breath, terrified that someone is going to pull them over and smell that they’re hiding a living person in the trunk.

They wind up at Hannibal’s house. He pulls into the driveway, cavalier as can be, allowing the garage door to roll down completely before he gets to work. “I don’t mind you watching, Will, but I do require a modicum of space to take my quarry down to the cellar.”

His words are the only way Will knows that he’s been hovering too closely, breathing down Hannibal’s neck. He’s starting to get flushed, palms sweating. Every synapse in his body seems to be firing off, his temperature rising. Hannibal’s muscles jump, veins jutting out of his skin with the effort of lugging around dead weight. It probably shouldn’t be so addictive, so absolutely electrifying. Will barely stops himself from groaning at the sight.

Hannibal has a little chamber tucked away in the basement. He opens the wine cellar, pulls up a section of the floorboards that only he seems to be able to discern is a door, and carries the man downstairs to a fluorescently-lit corner of the world that nobody has lived to see before. Except Will.

Well, he hopes he’s leaving the room alive, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Hannibal guts him in this space. The room is as cold and clinical as a hospital, but it’s clear that Hannibal spends a lot of time here. All his tools look as clean and well-used as the utensils in his kitchen.

Hannibal slaps the man awake, reveling in his terror. He lets the man babble for a few seconds as he ties him to an operating table, securing his limbs to the gurney. “Raphael, say hello to Will. He’ll be observing the procedure today to gauge his appetite for the work.”

“You’re sick—they’ll catch you, you bastard, they’ll catch you and stop you, you’ll see; you’ll see—”

Will’s lip curls. He understands why Hannibal views this man, Raphael, as a blight upon the earth.

“You don’t remember me,” Hannibal says, stepping away from the gurney to put a thick plastic suit on over his clothes. “That’s quite alright. Very few people can recall vicious slights when they dole them out like candy, and it’s been a decade since we’ve had the pleasure of being in each other’s company.”

Raphael’s eyes grow wide, his skin pale. “I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you a day in my life.”

“I requested one of your business cards,” Hannibal replies, carefully sanitizing his scalpel. “_Raphael Patenaude_. Not very many Frenchmen in Baltimore, I’m afraid. That makes your last name memorable. I hired you for some interior design work and some landscaping for my garden. You had me put quite a bit of money down beforehand, skipping town without so much as a by-your-leave. Outstandingly disrespectful behavior, wouldn’t you say?”

Licking his lips, narrowly realizing that Hannibal has turned to him for an answer, Will breathes out, “I’d say so, yeah.”

Hannibal caresses Raphael’s hands tenderly, watching as comprehension dawns on the man’s face and he shakes his head, alarm making his eyes glossy. “With these hands you did not finish what you started, and with these lips, you have deceived me. Swindling begets punishment, and I shall be your judge.”

It says something about Will that this gets him going. Watching Hannibal eviscerate a man, sawing him down to the bone and swallowing his blood down while the man cries, does it for him. Will bites his own fist so he doesn’t say anything untoward, trying to soak all of it in.

Minutes fade into hours. Raphael has bleed and urinated all over the floor, but it’s fine—Hannibal put some sort of paper trapping down to catch all the mess. The man is fading, his consciousness slipping away. “Here,” Hannibal whispers, his tone entrancing. “Put your hand into his chest, Will.”

He feels the lungs slowly fill and expand, the heart beating like lightning cracking down his spine. Will closes his eyes for a long moment, opening them to see Hannibal’s visage superimposed over Raphael’s. He chokes. “It’s beautiful.”

When he blinks, the vision fades. He can see Hannibal beaming at him with bloody fingers out of the corner of his eye, pride oozing out of his pores.

Before long, Hannibal has to tidy up, putting the harvested organs away. He takes the heart so that there’s no evidence left behind, going even further to cut out Raphael’s lungs and most of the tissues surrounding his thoracic cavity as well. He decides not to pose this piece, though he desperately wishes he could—it would be too telling.

Once everything is pristine, Hannibal chops Raphael up and dumps portions of his body over several days in different locations of the tri-state area. Most amusingly, the police seem convinced that they have a new, different killer on their hands.

_They’re blind_, Will thinks.

Hannibal always signs his work in one way or another.

Following that engagement, Will and Hannibal passionately reignite their sex life.

There’s no other way for Will to get the resulting itch out from under his skin; he needs the predatory instinct fucked out of him.

* * *

“Well, well,” Beverly muses. “Will Graham going to the opera. Who would’ve thought we’d ever live to see the day?”

“Don’t remind me,” he groans.

She smooths out the wrinkles in the jacket, having him spin around to make sure it fits him properly. “It’s a nice cut, but let’s try something else just in case. I don’t think this is your color.”

Will groans, immediately wishing he were drunk for this. “Bev, _please_. I’m not looking for something to get married in, I’m just going out for the night. I don’t want him to get a big head about it. This is a one-time deal.”

“You don’t know that. You’re going because you love Hannibal and the feeling must be mutual.” He glares at his best friend. “_What_? Why else would you subject yourself to something you hate so much? What if he proposes tonight? Are you gonna say yes?”

“_Nobody_ is going to propose, Katz. Hurry up. You know how much I despise this shit.”

“You’re going to an event with Baltimore’s high-rollers. _In public_. You’ll be Hannibal’s arm-candy, pretending to be nice all night. Graham, you’ve got it so bad.”

If she knew who Hannibal really was and that Will has decided to stand by him anyways, she’d have him institutionalized, so that’s the understatement of the year.

To no one’s surprise, Hannibal dresses to the nines for the event. His suit is tailor-made, tapered to his body, maroon and gold making his deeply hazel eyes stand out. A valet takes the car under the theatre’s awning, and the older man smoothly navigates the room. It’s not terrible for Will, all things considered. Most people are angling to get into Hannibal’s space, or into his pants. Will just has to smile and nod, the whiskey in his bloodstream helping him smile more earnestly.

When the show starts, he finds himself drawn to Hannibal’s countenance instead of the stage. He’s moved. Amazingly so. Tears are prickling at the corners of his eyes, for a dreadful second, Will fears that he might empathetically cry right along with him. The trepidation, anxiety, and soaring notes of merriment race through Hannibal in paces; Will takes all of it in with awe. It’s the most emotion Will’s ever seen from him, where he’s being absolutely, unabashedly genuine.

Afterwards, people clamber over themselves to chew off Hannibal’s ear. The torture is cut short by Hannibal steering them outside. He tips the valet, opening the passenger door for Will. “I was hoping you would join me for dessert,” he says as the vehicle purrs to life.

The younger man swallows. “Alright.”

For the first time in a while, they’re on unsteady ground. Will hasn’t taken the lead lately, tentative to take initiative, but Hannibal is nothing if not accommodating. They lope into the bedroom and Hannibal loosens his tie. “What comes next for us?”

Will shakes his head, slowly unfastening Hannibal’s buttons. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you don’t want to think about it?”

He refuses to dignify the jibe with a response. Instead, he pushes Hannibal’s shirt off of his shoulders, kneeling to take off his belt.

“How did it feel?”

This conversation reminds him of their first night together, where he’d done nothing but touch the escort’s body, exploring something new. “Like you were playing god.” He slips out of his shoes and undresses, voice ragged. “Like I was—” He hadn’t done anything. “Like _you_ were something more than human.”

“_We_ were his gods. The last thing he saw before he went to the great beyond, cradling his soul in the palms of our hands.”

Will curls two fingers around Hannibal’s shaft, carefully working him to full-mast. “You did all of the work. How did _you_ feel?”

Hannibal presses a soft kiss to the corner of Will’s mouth as the younger man picks up speed, putting his hand out to ask for more lubricant. “I take pride in what I do. I refuse to be relegated into society’s neat little boxes. Would you describe me as a monster, Will? An unfeeling, uncaring brute?”

He traces Hannibal’s pectoral muscles with his teeth, sucking a hickey into the older man’s throat. “You’re not insensitive,” he whispers. “I’ve never thought so, but I’ve seen it with my own eyes. You do care. But why? Why be kind to people if you’re going to eat them in the end?”

“I insist upon showing them kindness.” Hannibal digs his heels into the dip of Will’s knees, silently asking him for more. “It’s only ethical.”

Will laughs humorlessly. “Ethical butchery.”

Hannibal smiles. “Is it so strange a concept?”

“No,” he replies. “Not really.”

He takes his time stretching Hannibal open because it’s been a while. He relishes the feeling of Hannibal squirming beneath him, valiantly stifling moans.

“Don’t do that,” Will murmurs. “I want to hear you.”

Gaining surety with every second, Will increases the pace. He puts pressure on Hannibal’s right thigh and slides into his hole without a warning, noting the way it makes Hannibal’s pupils blow wide. Unconsciously, his other hand snaps up to Hannibal’s throat; he tightens his grip.

“You never should’ve trusted me,” he says, the words discordant and floaty. He feels like he’s having an out of body experience. The adrenaline rush is giving him a headache. “You should’ve known that I would be your downfall.”

He eases up so Hannibal can breathe again, but he doesn’t want the other man’s words to be coherent. Will fucks into him with a vengeance, balls brutally slapping against Hannibal’s skin as he rocks back and forth.

“I have never been afraid of death,” Hannibal muses, coughing and croaking with a weak grin on his face.

With a snarl, Will chokes him again, half-crazed as he snaps a chunk of Hannibal’s skin between his teeth, hurtling both of them over the edge as they come together. He collapses against Hannibal after he pulls out, feeling boneless.

Their chests heave, Hannibal’s more rapidly than Will’s.

This part is going to be difficult. Nigh impossible, really.

“I’m leaving,” Will says.

Hannibal hums. “May I ask why?”

“I want it. I want you and everything you’re offering. I want it all so badly that I kind of hate myself—that’s why I have to go. I love you, Hannibal. I don’t know if I can love _us_. It’s not sustainable. It can’t be a permanent solution.”

For a few minutes, there is blissful quiet. Will can almost hear Hannibal thinking.

“I suppose life can only be enjoyed from one moment to the next,” he finally replies, his tone forlorn. “I shall forever cherish the time that we’ve spent together, thinking often of our potential.”

Will lets his lips linger on Hannibal’s brow. “Me too.”

In the morning, he slides out of Hannibal’s bed and drives away.

Hannibal doesn’t turn up the next day to break every bone in Will’s body. He doesn’t threaten him, he doesn’t call him incessantly, worrying if Will is going to betray him at long last, to turn him in.

Horrible, aching silence and loneliness settles into Will’s bones. There’s nothing he can do about it. He’s brought those feelings upon himself.

Will doesn’t know what’s worse—that he longs to kill with Hannibal, just to see if he actually _could_, or that he keeps hoping and praying for Hannibal to take pity on him, to appear out of thin air; to put him out of his misery once and for all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see y'all for the final round next week & thanks so much to everyone who's read, kudos, bookmarked, commented, etc. it truly makes this a joy to be posting so long after the hype has kinda cooled for this show. :') ♥
> 
> ✧tumblr: [**quillifer**](https://quillifer.tumblr.com)


	5. part v: moonlight

It’s been three months since Will broke up with Hannibal, but Beverly is still disappointed in him. “I only want what’s best for you,” she mumbles. She spends most of the night downing beer and asking him what the fuck went wrong. He lies, saying that he doesn’t know.

He wonders what she would say if he tried to work with her comment, passing everything off as a joke. _What if what’s best for me is a serial killing cannibal?_ _What if what my heart desires is to plunge a knife into somebody’s heart and roll around in their blood?_

Beverly would probably fix him with a flat stare. Like any sane person, she’d want him to go see a therapist, to talk through his issues.

It’s too bad Hannibal hadn’t been a licensed psychiatrist when they’d been dating. He could have had back-to-back double entendres. _I’m seeing a doctor_, and, _I’m banging my therapist_.

His next best option is Alana. He’s not going to sign up for a session, not without a supervisor breathing down his neck and forcing him to go at the risk of losing his job. She’s still a good friend, though, and Beverly is nice enough, but she spends too much time walking the beat to tear him apart. Mostly, she trusts that Will knows what he’s doing. Her job is to cheer him up, to tell him that there are more fish in the sea, but right now, what Will needs is some cutting, brutal psychoanalysis.

The annoying snake hissing at the back of his head tells him that what he _needs_ is Hannibal. He tells it to be quiet.

Will hasn’t seen Alana in while—hasn’t seen much of anyone in a while. Letting Hannibal go has been difficult. He’d been forced to go back to his old ways of seclusion. He hasn’t had the strength go trawling bars to pick up a woman. His throat clogs when he thinks about sleeping with another man.

_Looking for me as you search the faces of the crowd,_ Hannibal’s voice murmurs.

He puts a hard stop to that, keeping the vivid background of an old chapel from forming in his head. It’s too easy to see Hannibal waiting there, softly lit by candles, waiting at the altar.

She looks different. He frowns, trying to piece it out. It’s not just her haircut, it’s the cut of her suit. It’s softer, more free-flowing. Alana rolls her eyes at him. “You _do_ remember that I got married last month, I hope?”

“I’m not that far gone,” Will mutters. It’d been the event of the year, with dozens of well-to-do doctors, journalists, police officials, and children in attendance. All of their puttering footsteps had echoed around the pavilion as the kindly, open-minded bishop had lead Margot and Alana through their vows.

“Margot wanted to have kids. Or, well, one kid, anyways. We planned the wedding after we got matched with a compatible sperm donor. I started taking shots a couple of weeks before the big day. We’re both in our mid-thirties. There’s no time to waste.”

He puzzles out what she’s hinting at and gapes. “You’re pregnant?”

Alana huffs. “You don’t have to look so surprised.”

“That’s great,” Will effusively says. “Wow.” The miracle of life never ceases to amaze him. He can hardly believe that Alana’s going to grow a tiny human inside of her fragile little body. It wouldn’t take more than a second for him to break her neck, and she’s going to support a fetus.

It takes some doing for him to screw his head back on straight. His wires for pleasure and violence keep getting crossed.

“You never ask me to come over and chat. What’s wrong?”

Will fidgets. “I’m sure you noticed that I didn’t come to your wedding with a plus one.”

Alana isn’t stupid. She figures out the truth in a manner of seconds. “You and Hannibal aren’t together anymore?”

“My fault, not his,” he’s quick to explain. He’s not entirely sure why he’s so desperate to cover up for a murderer, but that’s neither here nor there. “I got cold feet.”

“Oh, Will.” The look on her face reminds him why he doesn’t spend more time with Alana. Her blue eyes are too big, too understanding. He can’t stand the pity he sees in them clear as a bell. “Did you feel guilty about caring too much?”

He ambles into the kitchen to get a glass of water, stopping to pet Winston for comfort. “Yeah.” _Guilty about the lives that would be lost in our wake. Guiltier still because I want to fight past that guilt, to join him._

“What are you going to do?”

“That’s the problem. I have no idea.” Will places their drinks on the side table before running a hand through his hair. “I felt like our lines were blurring—I didn’t know where Hannibal’s thoughts stopped and mine started. Leaving was the right thing to do, I know that, but I can’t stand the thought of spending my days without him.”

“I’ve never seen you so worked up.” Alana frowns. “He didn’t hurt you or anything, did he?”

“No—god, _no_.” Though, all of this wouldn’t have been any easier if Hannibal _had_ hurt him. Will is currently convinced that he could forgive Hannibal for just about any transgression. At least if Hannibal had scarred him, Will would have had a physical reminder of the man on his body. Then, he might not have felt so compelled to conjure up images of Hannibal walking down the aisles of grandiose, old-world cathedrals. “It’s a lot to take in.” He looks down at his hands. “Unity. Promises. Building a life together.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Will,” Alana chastises him. “You ran away. There’ll never be a sense of satisfaction gained from doing something like that.”

“This is the rest of my _life_,” he stresses, trying not to cry in frustration. “I can’t resign myself to flimsy, pretty words—we’re talking about having someone else inside of my head. Forever, until death do us part.”

“What are you so afraid of? Having Hannibal inside of your head? Or getting too far inside of his?” Alana sighs. “I think you should talk to him. You need closure, and I can’t give it to you.”

“You do not understand. How much. I _cannot_ do that.”

“Mope around your house and feel sorry for yourself some more, then,” she snaps, her heels clicking against the floor as she leaves.

Will slumps back in his chair as his dogs whine, missing having a guest around again.

* * *

Spring lazily rolls into summer. It’s been a while since Jack and Will have spoken, especially since Will slammed the metaphorical door in Jack’s face, but, as usual, the agent is desperate. “I don’t think it’s the Ripper, but I’d like for you to come and take a look.”

Will is miserable enough to take the bait. “Okay.”

He can tell Jack is surprised by his easy agreement. “You’re not gonna fight me on this?”

“Let’s just say that I need a distraction.”

“I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth, then. Meet me in Hibbing, Minnesota.”

So, here he is, looking at a dead girl in her bed, laid out in a bloodstained white robe. It’s ill-fitting and about thirty years out of fashion. Chances are that the perp is the one who put it on her.

The whole scene reeks of a signature. It’s an apology—what the guy’s apologizing for, Will doesn’t know, but the process seems pretty damn clear to him. He tells Jack that word-for-word.

“Why would he apologize?”

“I’m not sure,” Will says, his posture becoming defensive as Jack looms over him. “Probably the same reason most people do. He feels bad.”

“For killing her,” Jack deadpans.

“Yes.” The older man narrows his eyes. Will throws up his hands. “What else do you want from me? It obvious.”

“How about you explain it to me anyways.”

Will inhales slowly, trying not to blow up. “He tucked Elise Nichols into bed after tearing her chest open. He killed her mercifully—his opinion, not mine. Everything about this was carefully planned. He’s having trouble letting go of something or someone, and…” He trails off.

_He can’t stand the thought of losing her._

Hannibal speaks. _You are very much like this killer. You can empathize with the sentiment, can’t you?_

“Will?”

He shakes off the lingering imaginary taunts from his ex. “I think there’s someone in his life that’s drifting away. A girlfriend, his wife, a friend, a child.” Will furrows his brow in thought. “How old did you say all of these girls were again?”

“Between ages seventeen and twenty.”

“Daughter’s likely, then. She’s going off to college. If he can’t have her, nobody else can.”

“Incest,” Jack grouses, disgusted. “Wonderful. The media’s going to have a field day with this one.”

Will spins on his heel, glaring and jabbing a finger in Jack’s face. “Don’t oversimplify this. Don’t leap to conclusions. That’s how you start missing clues, making mistakes. His parental love could just be warped. You said there wasn’t any saliva. There’s no semen, no violations. He’s honoring his daughter. He’s killing these girls in her stead. That’s sacrifice. That’s a father’s love.”

Jack runs a hand down his face. “You oughtta be damn glad that you and I don’t have kids. They’d have your head if you said something like that down at the Bureau.”

“I don’t _work_ for the Bureau.”

“Why not? You’re good at this, Will. Better than anybody else I know.”

_I care about your well-being,_ Hannibal says, his tone tender and devoted. _Not the well-being of others. I wouldn’t wish those nightmares and monsters upon you._

_Go away_, Will internally shouts. _Leave me alone._

“Because it breaks me,” Will says, trying to temper himself and failing miserably. “I don’t know how much longer I can look at this stuff without losing my mind. Hell, I’m only here because my _real_ life is crumbling to pieces. Tell me, Jack—why entrust me with this? Why do I have to erase my psyche to figure out the circumstances which lead to other people’s deaths?”

Jack blinks, bewildered. “You really feel like you’re letting these murderers’ personalities take over your consciousness?”

“I can only catch them,” Will mutters, “because I feel like I’m living their lives.”

Breezy, stony silence falls between them in the wake of that revelation. Jack keeps his hands in his pockets, making his way over to his team after a few minutes. Will heads back to his hotel.

* * *

He picks up his phone. Puts it down.

Jack has him running errands. Forensics finds a piece of sheet metal that has distinct markings on it. It’s a lead, an easy one to follow.

He finds a resignation letter without an address printed below the signature line.

A terrible idea crosses his mind. _You should warn him, give him time to escape_.

He’s not chasing Hannibal right now. If it had been Hannibal’s freedom on the line, Will would already be hitting the call button. He doesn’t know Garett Jacob Hobbs. He just knows the pale, pasty faces of the deceased, wind-chaffed victims.

The FBI creeps up to the Hobbs house from a block away, careful not to scare their suspect off. Will leads the operation, his baby face and blue eyes trustworthy. He tries to keep the conversation civil, but Hobbs quickly catches onto him—he leaps for a knife, slitting his wife’s throat before the agents can do anything. It takes an embarrassing amount of time for Will to respond, to take the loaned handgun out of the holster.

“Freeze,” he warns Hobbs. “Hands behind your head.”

Hobbs goes for his daughter’s throat, so Will fires.

He shoots to maim, pulling the trigger repetitively. He lets off ten rounds. _Overkill._

It takes hours to process the scene. The poor girl dies on the way to the hospital.

With trembling fingers, Will dials a familiar number.

“Hannibal,” he whispers, willing himself not to sob. “I need your help.”

“Tell me where you are,” the smoothly-accented voice replies.

* * *

Life is strange.

Will never could have imagined that they would wind up back here again. The circumstances have changed; they’re in a different hotel, a different city. It’s a different state of affairs. Some things haven’t—Hannibal came upon Will’s request. He is still ethereally handsome. His cologne smells woodsy and expensive. Will salivates at the very sight of him.

“I can pay you,” Will quietly offers from his perch on the bed. “For your time.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “There is no need. The intake from my psychiatric practice is more than sufficient for covering such expenditures.”

Will holds out his hand. Hannibal interlaces their fingers. He exhales, something dislodging itself in his chest. Everything is suddenly right with the world. “How do you block out the noise? How do you manage to keep yourself above it all?”

“I meditate. I prepare meals, keep my hands busy. I am not often plagued by memories of past events. I focus on everything that I experience with my eyes, my fingertips, my nose, and my tongue. In such a way, I consistently occupy my senses. I craft mysteries for law enforcement to solve in order to challenge my mind.”

Will nuzzles into the dip Hannibal’s sternum, hazily aware of the other man peeling off his shirt. “I’m sorry for running away. Show me.”

“I shall be very cross with you if you’re still insecure about this, Will. I have found that I do not handle rejection well, and I am unsure if I could handle our separation a second time.”

Shuddering, Will presses his palms flat against Hannibal’s bare shoulder blades, kissing the corner of Hannibal’s jaw. “I’ve already apologized once. I won’t do it again, you self-aggrandizing son of a bitch.”

Hannibal smiles, hooking a finger under Will’s chin to tilt his head back. Will defiantly glares up at him in response, but there’s no real heat; he doesn’t mean it. “Our time apart has served to make you rude.” He impresses Will by shifting positions, grabbing Will’s ankles, and situating Will in his lap. “Convince me to forgive you.”

“Fuck you,” Will hums, shoving his tongue into Hannibal’s mouth. “It’s your job to get me out of my head, Dr. Lecter. Prescribe me something to burn everyone else but you out of my blood.”

“Another self-aggrandizing son of a bitch might have read that as a compliment about their skills in the bedroom.” Hannibal slams Will down on the mattress, making both of them bounce with the force. “What a shame.”

Within moments, Hannibal has taken a set of zip ties from out of his pocket, done up Will’s wrists, and follows it up by tying his ankles together. He gets Will half-hard and then swans over to the coffee table, leaving the younger man with blue balls._ Motherfucker._

Will snarls and snaps, demanding to be fucked, but Hannibal keeps blithely reading the news, ignoring him. When he gives up, huffing and staring at the ceiling, he can’t help but smile sardonically.

He supposes it’s the least he deserves.

Ironically, the treatment works—Will falls into a heavy, dreamless sleep that night, possibly because Hannibal is more dangerous than any nightmare his brain could manage to conjure up.

* * *

As they make their way back to Baltimore, Will debriefs Hannibal on the situation. “They called him the Minnesota Shrike. It’s some type of perching bird that kills its prey and takes the remains back to its nest for later. It was appropriate, all things considered, since he was eating them. You would’ve liked Hobbs. He didn’t leave anything to waste.”

“Mm,” Hannibal replies, agreeing with him.

It’s a long drive, so Will has plenty of time for questions. “Where are you from?”

The older man quirks an eyebrow. “You’re asking this now?”

“You’re not exactly forthright about your childhood, Hannibal. We’ve known each other for three years, but I didn’t really _know_ you before.” _Before I found out who you were_.

“Lithuania.” The blinkers click as he switches lanes. “I was born to Mykolas and Simonetta Lecter, Count and Countess of the esteemed Lecter Estate.”

Will whistles. “Damn. You always seemed like you came from old money, but I didn’t think it was that old.”

“To be fair, it was my Uncle Robert who raised me,” Hannibal adds. “He made his fortune from the Parisian telecommunications industry in the fifties.”

Noting the distinction, Will grows somber. “How old were you when your parents died?”

“Twelve.”

Will shudders. “That’s too young for anyone to deal with tragedy. It reminds me of Hobbs’s daughter, Abigail. If she had lived, she would’ve been eighteen. You were both just kids.”

“All three of us.” The older man has a strange look on his face. Will’s never seen it before.

“Who’s number three?”

“My sister,” Hannibal muses. “Mischa. She was six years my junior. I adored her. Like Abigail, her life was extinguished much too soon; merely a tender ten years old.”

“Damn,” Will breathes out slowly. “How’d she die?” When Hannibal doesn’t answer him, Will swallows. “Please don’t tell me that _you_ killed her.”

Hannibal chuckles humorlessly. “Most assuredly not. I would lay down my life several times over to have her back. She was my responsibility; my charge. I loved her like I would my own daughter.” Will’s heart lurches for him. “A group of men stole her from our apartment in the night. It was a turbulent time and I didn’t make much money—times were very difficult. When the men later offered me something to eat, I was grateful. It was only when I began to look around for my sister that I realized she had gone missing. One of the men let something of hers drop out of his bag. Then, I realized what, or rather whom, I was eating.”

“Holy shit, Hannibal.”

“Don’t fret. I have already killed all of them in retribution.”

Will hurriedly snaps, “Good.”

Hannibal offers him a quiet smile for the remark. “What an enigmatic creature you are. I could never hope to fully understand your inner workings. How you manage to justify the worst of punishments, yet balk at the natural cycle of life and death, killing to nourish one’s body and survive. It is beyond me.”

The younger man reaches over the clutch to hold Hannibal’s hand. “I’m a catch. What can I say.”

* * *

Since they’ve gotten back together, Will’s been rather fond of riding Hannibal’s dick.

The smooth slide of his cock rubbing his inner walls makes Will moan until his throat hurts. In this position, he can dictate the pace of their lovemaking, can feel Hannibal’s abdominal muscles clenching, his pelvis cradling Will, thick thighs sliding up against Will’s own.

“_Ahh_, shit,” he hisses, fist around his own penis tight as he chases his pleasure. “Do that thing with your hips one more time.”

Hannibal snarls. “Even I can run out of patience, Will. Do not push your luck.”

He smirks, pulling off of his partner and spreading his ass cheeks. “You’d like to _push_ something into me for sure.”

As he’d threatened, Hannibal snaps his jaw at Will and forces his face into the pillows. “You must consider yourself so very clever.” He rakes his nails down Will’s back until he draws blood. The sharp tang of the sensation causes Will’s toes to curl, ripping a guttural groan from his lungs. He presses a knee to Will’s throat and the younger man garbles nonsense. “You like to push the envelope, to see what I’ll do.”

When he eases up, Will coughs, voice hoarse. “Is it working?” A palm loudly slaps against his glutes. He keens.

“You tell me,” Hannibal whispers into his ear, his voice dripping with vice.

Another five stern spankings and Will folds—“Yes, _yes_, don’t tease me. I want you to fuck me.”

Hannibal pulls him up by the hair and sinks his teeth into the skin of Will’s neck. “Say it.”

“_Please_ fuck me.”

He hears more than sees Hannibal lick his lips. “I admire those capable of asking for what they want.”

Will curses when Hannibal sinks in. There’s almost no resistance because Will had been splitting himself on Hannibal’s dick minutes ago, so he slides in to the hilt. Every one of his motions is fluid, though. He’s much better at getting the head of his cock to rub up against Will’s prostate than Will is.

Hannibal doesn’t allow Will to come until after he’s painted Will’s calves with his ejaculate. He waits for the bare minimum of Will’s refractory period to pass before slithering down his legs and putting his mouth around Will’s flaccid member.

One of their phones buzzes on the nightstand, scaring the shit out of Will. He tries to ignore it, but he doesn’t have that kind of focus—his eyes keep wandering.

“Be my guest,” Hannibal leans back to goad him. “Answer it, since it’s preoccupying your thoughts.”

Will languidly rolls his eyes. “You’re not going to get anything out of me for a while anyways.” He slides the answer button to the side. “Hello?”

He bites his lip when Hannibal cradles his balls. The pressure is almost too tight; he narrows his eyes down at the other man in warning.

“I’m sorry to bother you so late,” Jack says. He’s not sorry. He’s never sorry. “I think we’ve got another Ripper murder on our hands. Can you come out and take a look?”

_Hannibal, you rat bastard. _Will vehemently glares down at the guilty party. “I’m a little busy.”

“Hurry up and make yourself available,” the FBI agent retorts, then hangs up.

“We’ve been back together all of three weeks and you drop a body _now_?” Will hisses through his teeth when Hannibal swirls his tongue around the glans.

“I had a psychiatric conference to attend in California. Without a guest to enjoy the weekend with, there was quite a bit of free time on my hands.”

Will’s hard again, much to his chagrin. “We need to lay out some ground rules. You can’t just kill any old schmuck for cutting you off at the grocery store.”

“Of course, dear. Anything you like.” Hannibal’s teeth flash in the low light before he sucks Will dry.

“Stop calling me dear,” Will complains, tightening his fingers in Hannibal’s hair as he comes down his partner’s throat.

Will is frazzled and disgruntled by the time he arrives. He’s aware that he probably looks and smells like stale sex, but Jack is just going to have to deal with it. He’d barely caught the red eye to Sacramento.

When he gets to the scene, Jack purses his lips. “You couldn’t have taken a shower first?”

“You told me to rush. Beggars can’t be choosers, Jack.”

He inhales deeply before he looks at whatever gift the killer has left him.

The male victim has been skinned, lightly toasted to a medium-rare color.

_Whenever death may surprise us, let it be welcome if our battle cry has reached even one receptive ear and another reaches out to take up our arms._

_-Che Guevara_

_Welcome back,_ the card below the huge, meaty valentine says, in so many words. It’s unsigned, but the handiwork is indisputable. Hannibal may as well have pissed all over the scene to mark his territory.

“Does he know that the FBI is requesting your consultations again? Is he challenging you, asking you to square off with him in a one-on-one?”

Will laughs. He can’t help it. “I don’t think so, Jack. He’s not the brawling type; _look_ at this. Everything here has been laid out with intent, right down to the skewers he has the body displayed on. Don’t get me wrong, he’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, but he’d only fight someone if he had to—he prefers to take his time and draw things out. The only person who’d have a chance of winning a physical altercation with this guy is _you_. He isn’t scared of _me_ catching on to him.”

Jack huffs. “He should be.”

He closes his eyes to keep from rolling them. “Mm.” _Jack, you’d cut off your own nose to spite your face. Open your eyes. Isn’t this strange? Aren’t you missing something? Doesn’t it feel like I know too much?_

Because Jack chooses to be blind, Hannibal gets off scot-free yet again.

* * *

The rest of the year is peaceful, relatively speaking.

In August, Beverly elbows Will in the side. “Stop freaking out, Graham. It’s about damn time you introduced me to Hannibal. I’m going to embarrass the hell out of you for making me wait three years for this.”

“See, that? That’s why it’s taken me this long to introduce him to you.”

“I had to force you to tell me about him, too.”

“Kill me now.”

Will wrings his hands nervously as they take their seats. Hannibal looks wildly out of place in the diner with his crisp white button down on over heather-grey slacks. Will had begged him to forgo a suit and tie, for good reason.

His best friend’s jaw drops as Hannibal glides into the chair next to Will, taking a moment to squeeze his partner’s shoulder for comfort. “Hannibal, meet Beverly.” He turns to her, silently pleading for her to behave. “Bev, meet Hannibal. Be forewarned that I _will_ end you if you make any dick jokes.”

Beverly snickers. “But then how _schlong_ would we have a fun time?”

“Katz, you’re dead to me.”

“Save it for someone who cares.”

Hannibal just watches them gripe at each other with a cheerful smile.

Lunch is fun despite Will’s initial misgivings. Hannibal and Beverly find common ground in their taste for psychological case studies and personality assessments. Mostly, the two of them spend the afternoon poking fun at Will for one thing or another. He allows their indulgence.

When the whole mess is finished, Hannibal foots the bill without batting an eyelash. Beverly pulls him aside. “Graham. If you manage to screw this up twice, I think I’ll have to break your legs. He’s way too fine for you, twitchy little gremlin that you are.”

“Gee, thanks,” he deadpans.

“Truth hurts, buddy. Good luck. I call dibs on being best man at the wedding.”

“Fuck off, Bev.”

Alana’s _huge_ by the time they manage to meet up in November. She wobbles in her flats, putting a hand on her abdomen as a clutch for balance. Margot has a hand on the small of Alana’s back, helping her out of the car.

For this gathering, he’d requested that Hannibal make food without people in it. The man had fixed him with a nasty look in response. “You needn’t have asked—that’s an apparent matter. I wouldn’t want to upset a pregnant woman’s stomach by chance. What kind of doctor do you take me for?”

Will’s responding look is just as dark and dry. “The kind that kills people.”

Hannibal smiles at that. “Fair enough.”

The three of them work to clear Alana’s path so she can situate herself at the table. Hannibal, ever the gracious host, has put an ergonomic chair next to a table that’s a bit higher off the ground than his usual one.

Will is chatty, pleasant company for the first time in ages. His students have mentioned that his lectures have become easier to follow, that he’s become more approachable. Price and Zeller are talking to him again, comparing notes on their varied projects.

Similarly, Alana looks pleased to be in attendance regardless of how tired she is. She rubs her round belly in intervals, letting Margot take the conversational lead this evening. She’s thirty weeks along; the baby is beginning to move around in earnest. “Feisty boy,” Margot tells them, lacquered-red lips curling up in a grin.

With his social obligations squared away for the year, Will can get down to business with his partner at long last.

“Find someone worthy of my wrath and punishment,” he tells Hannibal, “and I’ll hunt with you.”

Hannibal looks up from his sketchbook. “How is worthiness to be measured, according to your standards?”

“You know what I like. Figure something out.”

The sound of a scalpel scraping away at a pencil fills the living room for the rest of the night, but Will can practically hear the wheels turning in Hannibal’s brain where he’s formulating a plan.

* * *

They decide to make a week of it, taking a vacation on the Gulf coast.

Hannibal has booked them a swanky little villa a mile away from the water. There’s a full-service kitchen, of course, and they spend the afternoon unpacking their bags before strolling down the beach hand-in-hand.

A couple of teenagers point at them, calling them names; they don’t know any better. Will spends an unhealthy amount of time picturing what they would look like if Hannibal were to plunge a hand into their chests before leaving them to dry out on the sand.

He starts to get antsy on day four. They’ve necked once, fumbled with each other’s cocks twice, and gazed out at the sunset with huge globes of wine in hand a few times. Will can’t take his mind off of the mission—he’s too restless to properly make love to Hannibal, and he’d probably punch Hannibal if the man tried to fuck him right now. He’s a livewire, high-strung and ready to catch flame.

After a marvelous meal, Will dozes off. Around eleven p.m., Hannibal rouses him from his sleep. They walk two miles to a skip where a busted-down old car without plates rests. Hannibal slides into the driver side seamlessly. Will scrambles to follow him, shutting the passenger door closed with sweaty palms.

They drive for an hour to a house out in the countryside. Hannibal pulls a folder out from the pocket behind Will’s seat as they begin the journey. “His name is Jeremy Pinkett,” Hannibal casually informs him. “He has two misdemeanors on record with Destin’s police department. One count of animal cruelty and one count of illegal gambling, likely for underground dogfighting. Furthermore, he’s frequently been warned against flashing his genitals to children in public parks. Does he suit your palate?”

“How did you get this information?”

“Don’t avoid the question, Will.”

Will turns to glare at him. “Don’t avoid _mine_.”

Hannibal heaves a long-suffering sigh. “I am well-versed with the online hacking community. My requests are always submitted anonymously and I wire the responsible individuals money from an offshore account that U.S. law enforcement officials would be hard-pressed to trace back to my legal name.”

Since Hannibal has been honest with him, Will reciprocates, fighting to get the words out. “He’ll do. I mean, he’s a good target. Thanks.”

The car rolls to a stop in a run-of-the-mill ranch house. It’s at least ten acres away from the next house; nice and secluded. It makes sense. If Pinkett has been bringing people over to bet on fighting animals, he’d have the space for a makeshift ring.

Getting inside is laughably simple; Pinkett keeps the front door unlocked. _Sloppy two-bit criminal, _Will thinks. Going by those guidelines, he and Hannibal deserve a five-star rating. Hannibal’s breadth of experience makes him an excellent predator.

He sweeps his arm in a welcoming gesture for Will when they reach Pinkett’s bedroom. _Go ahead_, he tells Will with his eyes. _Have your fun_.

They have matching plastic suits on, their extremities covered by gloves and hair nets. They leave nothing to chance. Like Hannibal’s freed him to roll around in a meadow, Will leaps into action. It’s as intimate as choking Hannibal can be—Pinkett gurgles, unaware of his fate until the very moment he slips into unconsciousness.

There’s no need to rush. The night is still young.

The two of them work together to drag Jeremy Pinkett into the bathroom. They wait for him to wake back up. Hannibal passes Will a wickedly-curved linoleum knife. “How would you like to transect his abdomen?”

“In English, that means?”

“To cut him open,” Hannibal says, lovingly caressing Will’s arm. Pinkett struggles in his bindings, attempting to squirm free, but his ankles won’t budge—a length of rope is secured to the base of the toilet. His arms are above his head, fastened to the rack designed for holding towels. “Specifically, slashing him across the gut. You shouldn’t slide the knife in too deeply, however; it would spill bile onto the floor. The stench can be unbearable to some.”

His heartbeat picks up speed. “You’ll watch me?”

Hannibal nods. “Rest assured, nothing could make me look away for a single moment. I have been waiting a very long time to see you flourish.”

Will’s color rises as the blade pierces skin. Pinkett screams into a gag, eyes bulging out of their sockets in pain. His breath comes more quickly as he drags the knife from Pinkett’s left side to his right. _Shit. Shit, holy fuck, those are his organs._ Pinkett is starting to froth at the mouth, tears streaming down his face. Will finishes the window into Pinkett’s innards by carving long slashes parallel to the man’s arms, pulling back the flaps as his victim finally passes out.

Hannibal presses two fingers into Pinkett’s body, then spreads his blood over Will’s lips. Will takes the caress one step further, letting his eyes flutter closed, taking the digits into his mouth and licking the plastic relatively clean. Though Hannibal has to grab toilet paper to wipe the spit off before diligently washing his hands, he looks thrilled.

They finish their business with Pinkett around two-thirty in the morning. Hannibal loads his body into a couple of large garbage bags, tying a cinder block to Pinkett’s legs and letting him drift to the bottom of a local pond.

When they get back to the villa they’re renting, Will leaps into Hannibal’s arms like an animal, desperate for contact. They bite and bruise each other, engaging in relentless, uncultured fucking. Blood is drawn. Suck-marks are livid on their skin; neither of them could care less.

Will is wholly unsurprised when he wakes up with a silver band around a certain finger on his left hand.

Hannibal’s ego is far too large for him to stoop to the plebeian gesture of kneeling down and _asking_ for Will’s hand in marriage. To his credit, since Will had taken him back, chosen to accept Hannibal and everything he stands for, to walk down the same path as his lover without regret, his assumption is correct.

_It seems inevitable_, the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Hannibal’s murmurs. _Like our destiny was written in the stars._

“Living together as murder husbands,” he sardonically mumbles to himself. “How _romantic_.”

* * *

Planning the wedding is Hannibal’s job. Picking their new house out is Will’s. “I’m not staying in your _mausoleum_,” the younger man snaps. “The ceilings are fifty feet high. The yard isn’t big enough for the dogs.”

Hannibal wrinkles his nose.

“I’m only keeping two of them. You should consider yourself pretty damn lucky that I’m doing that for you, Mr. OCD-Doesn’t-Rule-Me. Prude.”

“Would you still consider me prudish if I managed to do a split and land on your shaft?”

Will stops in place, wrinkling the papers he has in his hand. “_Excuse_ me?”

The older man smirks. “I’ll take that as a no, then.”

Just as he’d planned, Will can think of precious little else for the rest of the afternoon. Will gives the house-hunting up as a wash; later, he puts Hannibal’s taunt to the test.

He’s as good as his word. Better than, actually.

Six months after they’ve returned from their vacation, Florida locals find the body.

Hannibal is busy fussing at people about napkins, catering, and place settings. Will is wondering exactly how hard it could be to kill his lover and get away with it—the whole mess of trying to get hitched while packing up his place is making him want to scream in frustration.

Lounds is the one to break the story. It’s a big deal for the Tattler, which had previously been viewed by the populace as racy underground true-crime garbage.

Both of them stop what they’re doing to read the news together. Will scoffs aloud when he reads the article’s credit line. “_Lounds_?”

Hannibal shrugs. “She does have a habit of sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Will isn’t usually one for cuddling or sharing space. It’s typically only when they’ve finished having sex that he throws an arm over Hannibal’s middle, snoring until he inevitably wakes up in the middle of the night. His petty satisfaction lies in the fact that Hannibal sleeps like shit, a reflex honed from years of being on the lam from the law. The older man always squints up at Will as the younger man pads around restlessly, burning off excess energy. When he’s being especially noisy, Hannibal offers to sedate him; Will flicks him off in response. He doesn’t want the good doctor to stick a needle under his skin, nor does he want Hannibal, the morally-ambiguous man, to shove unknown pills down his throat. He’d be giving the serial killer far too much reign over his unconscious body in such a scenario.

Not that it really matters. He falls asleep next to Hannibal even after their quiet exchanges at two or three a.m. If he wanted to, Hannibal could dose Will in his sleep and Will would be none the wiser, at least until he’d blearily woken at twelve p.m., wondering how in the hell he’d gotten so much rest.

Today is a day of firsts—he tucks himself under Hannibal’s arm, pressing close to his fiancée while they read through the short report.

NAVARRE, FL —

> At 6 o’clock this morning, the body of Florida resident, Jeremy Pinkett, was found at the bottom of a pond ten miles away from his home. Pinkett frequently neglected to report to his job at a nearby warehouse, so it wasn’t until a relative attempted to reach him last month that authorities began to question his whereabouts.
> 
> He didn’t have many friends. He had a couple misdemeanors on record, but no one interviewed believed Pinkett to be the type to make enemies. How, then, did he wind up mutilated, his skin horribly bloated by months of filthy water?
> 
> [_Photograph of the deceased Jeremy Pinkett, Age 46. (c) Lounds, 2016_]
> 
> Could a man who rarely showed up to work on time have crossed paths with someone from his past, out for revenge? Or was his fate worse than anyone could have expected? This feels pathological; a budding new killer could be in our midst. There are too many cuts on his body for the work of the run-of-the-mill murder.
> 
> What do you think actually happened? Feel free to theorize on this terrible, crass crime below.

“Where does she get off calling _anybody_ crass?” Will grumbles.

His partner is amused by his rancor. “Her words have rattled you. Because your work wasn’t admired?”

“Because Freddie Lounds is a fucking snake,” he spits, slamming the cover of Hannibal’s tablet closed. “She thinks she’s untouchable, that she can say and do whatever she wants; that she’ll never receive retribution for her actions. It’s _vulgar_.”

“We could solve that problem for her, if you’d like,” Hannibal muses. Will gives his partner a flat look—it never ceases to amaze him how breezily the man speaks of murder. It’s casual; cavalier, even. _Shall we take a walk in the park? I’d like to take you out for dinner. Let’s end someone’s life together._

“When we can get away with it, you mean.”

“Yes,” Hannibal dryly replies, like he’s dealing with a particularly dim-witted child. “Perhaps we’ll deal with her after the wedding, if you don’t mind.”

“So sorry, Groomzilla,” Will snipes. “Please contact me at your earliest convenience. It wouldn’t do for someone that noticeable to go missing on our special day. That’d sour the flavor of the _canapés_.”

The older man simply kisses Will on the temple, ignoring his attitude. “Will, you are so very fortunate that I am partial to your sorry excuse for manners.”

His lips split, flashing all of his teeth in a wild, ragged smile. “Oh, bite me, asshole.”

Hannibal’s answering grin is just as depraved. “Don’t mind if I do.”

* * *

On the day of the wedding, Will is about to shit his pants, he’s so nervous.

Alana and Margot take turns bouncing a gurgling baby on their hips, cooing at the boy until he begins to get drowsy. Beverly tries to give her best friend a pep talk, but he’s too busy vibrating out of his fucking skin to listen to a single word.

Everything is perfect—_goddamn you, Hannibal, and your power complex,_ Will thinks, ready to claw his eyes out. There are too many chandeliers in this building. The tablecloths are the brightest white he’s ever seen. The lights are yellow and harsh.

He understands now why some men leave their wives at the altar. If there weren’t so many expectant eyes following him while he continues to pace the corridors, he’d have high-tailed it out of the glistening cathedral ages ago.

Okay, that’s not true. Will isn’t a coward. He won’t run away from Hannibal a second time. Hannibal wouldn’t _let_ him.

A hush falls over the crowd; it’s showtime.

The only thing traditional about the wedding is the location. Neither of them have living parents to walk them down the aisle. Will is no blushing virgin to be handed off as a prize to a welcoming, loving husband.

He just has Hannibal, who is unapologetically ferocious; his own brilliant psychopath.

_I am as much a psychopath or a sociopath as you are,_ Hannibal had told him once. _Which is to say, not at all._ _Both terms are characterized by a lack of empathy for one’s fellow man. We understand the feelings of the masses; you understand them far more than anyone else. Too many mirror neurons in your head, superimposing their visages upon your own over and over again._

_Do you know how one manages to suppress those feelings of guilt, Will?_

_You refuse to view your victims as equals._

Will had caught onto his philosophical reasoning quickly, chuckling lightly at Hannibal’s words. _It isn’t cannibalism if they aren’t equals._

_Exactly_.

Will reminds himself that _that_ is who’s waiting for him at the end of the aisle. He manages to pick his head up, gathering his wits and exhaling slowly. Hannibal’s tie is crisp and white, his suit ocean blue with a gold trim, a color he’d picked to match Will’s irises.

He wades through the thick waters of his feelings, breaking the surface for air, shedding his old skin. Confidence is key. Hannibal’s waiting for him—he’s waited for him for much longer in the past. Hannibal has been at Will’s beck and call before. If Will had avoided his wrath when the man had been an escort, he can navigate this new phase of their lives.

_I love you._ Will internally curses. _Of all the people in the world, I can’t believe I fell in love with **you**, you insufferable, sadistic son of a bitch, and you know it._

He comes to a stop beside his partner on the altar. The ceremony passes in a haze. He only tunes back in to trade vows, Hannibal’s hands warm in his own.

“’Til death do us part,” Hannibal murmurs, lips a breath away from his own.

“And not a moment sooner,” Will whispers back, making the older man dip his back a bit as he brutally licks his way into Hannibal’s mouth. The crowd cheers, hooting and hollering at the display.

* * *

Jack shows up on Will’s doorstep the day before they’re due to fly out to Greece.

“Congratulations,” he says, shuffling awkwardly from foot to foot. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” Will replies. “Sorry about the mess. Hope it’s okay if we stand. I got rid of all the furniture already.”

The house is vacant; it feels vaguely haunted. With only Winston and Buster to warm the place up, it’s lonely. He’s only here to do some last-minute tidying. Hannibal helped him with the bulk of it yesterday.

It’s so strange. He and Jack don’t know how to deal with each other anymore. The man hasn’t called him in to consult on a case in months, which is fair. He and Hannibal aren’t trying to flaunt their status as joint-murderers just yet; it’d be too easy to tie Hannibal’s M.O. to the corpses they’ve dropped in bodies of water in the south and the midwest. Hannibal hasn’t killed alone since California, so far as Will knows. When would he have had the time, between the wedding, the move, and his psychiatric practice?

“The Ripper’s gone quiet,” Jack explains tersely. “The last time he was hot, he was obsessed with you. I was hoping you could give me a new theory.”

Will echoes Jack’s body language, shoving his hands into his pockets. “What do you want me to say, exactly? He’s patient, Jack, you already know that. It could be months before he’s active again. Years.”

“See, that’s what worries me,” the other man says, beginning to circle the room. Will is forced to do the same so that he doesn’t leave his back exposed. This meeting is beginning to feel dangerous. “You talk about this guy like you know him. He sure seems like he knows you. You have anything to say about that?”

“I’m just stating the facts,” Will replies, running a finger over the length of the switchblade he now keeps in his pants. “Standard practices. Obvious profiling schematics. Nothing new under the sun.”

“You said he’d have a history in the medical field.” Will’s heart suddenly leaps into high-gear. “An ex-surgeon. You said he’d have a taste for the finer things in life. That he might be an artist, or an art aficionado.”

“Hannibal’s _clean_,” Will stresses.

Jack takes a step back, putting a hand to his right side. “Nobody said anything about Hannibal. Why would you bring him up?”

Blue eyes narrow. “It was implied. I know what it looks like, Jack—he fits the profile.”

“You’re not even the _least_ bit suspicious? He’s never done or said anything that makes you wary? You haven’t tailed him, figured out if he’s lied to you? If you haven’t, why not? You were a good cop, Will. One of the best in the business. I don’t want to believe that you married this guy without covering all of your bases.”

_Fuck._ Will’s pulse trills. _Fuck, shit. Jack’s finally done his homework. I don’t know why, but he’s onto us. Why now?_ He forces himself to calm down, hoping his voice doesn’t break. “I did. That’s how I know he’s clean.”

“Explain this to me, then.” Jack puts an illustration down on the table. The photo is encased in plastic, treated like evidence.

He swallows. “_The Wound Man_.”

“I went to Dr. Lecter’s office yesterday,” the FBI agent drawls, “to wish him all the best in your union. Since my wife died, I’ve been rather sentimental. I wanted to visit both of you, tell you to have a happy honeymoon. You can imagine my surprise, then, when I found this while absently rifling through a stack of the doctor’s old sketches. The illustration is fairly famous, but here’s the interesting part—some of the markings on _this_ body didn’t match those from any of the old surgical texts. Fascinatingly enough, I ran the likeness against one Timothy Brown, an archer from Wisconsin. Dr. Lecter was his attending trauma surgeon.”

“I’m guessing he didn’t give this to you,” Will murmurs.

“I took a picture with my phone before putting it back.” Jack reaches for his gun. “So tell me, Will—any theories?”

He puffs out a heavy breath, taking a moment to lick his lips. “Just one.”

Because Jack is so eager to trust, so unable to see the truth until it’s too late, he doesn’t get his weapon out in time. Will slits his throat and allows him to bleed out, watching to make sure the light goes out of Jack’s eyes before he backs away and promptly panics, fighting to get air in his lungs while he slumps against the wall.

Before he goes to call Hannibal, he chokes out one bitter sob.

He’s forfeited a friend to live this way. A good one. A beloved man. More significantly, he’s just killed the head of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit like a fucking idiot. His prints are all over the damn body, the crime scene, _and_ the murder weapon.

Once he’s finished having a crisis, he thinks to himself, _this is gonna be a bitch to clean up for resell value._

Hannibal sighs when he arrives. “We’d best get to work. Let me get you a bag for your things. We’ll have to burn them.”

He has the chemicals to get blood stains out, of course; Will’s fortunate that he’d murdered Jack in the kitchen. Hannibal double-checks everything with luminol fluid and a pair of infrared goggles. Wrapping a towel around Jack’s body, they move him to the trunk.

He’ll have to be burned, too.

* * *

After quite literally starting their honeymoon week off with a bang, Hannibal and Will hurry off to Athens.

The nation publicly mourns Jack’s death, but the FBI doesn’t have any leads as to his whereabouts, nor do they have confirmation that he _is_ dead. His phone signal had cut off in the middle of their impromptu drive to Arkansas thanks to Hannibal’s thoughtful planning. His meat had been burned to a fine crisp in a bonfire. His charred bones had been further ground into a paste by hand. “Tedious work,” Hannibal had grunted, “but necessary, given the circumstances.”

Jack had apparently been stubborn and jaded enough to keep his theories about the Chesapeake Ripper to himself. Will had royally bitched Hannibal out for his hubris. “Don’t leave incriminating bullshit lying around your _office_, holy shit. You’re supposed to be _good _at this.”

Two days turns into two weeks in the blink of an eye. Nobody suspects Will Graham—except Freddie Lounds, of course. But nobody’s listening to her.

Mostly because she’s locked up in the basement of their new house. Hannibal lets her out on occasion, but only after shooting her up with some home-brewed methamphetamines. Her boss and co-workers are beginning to doubt her ability to perform, to write scathing articles; they think she’s going to get herself killed, snorting that stuff. They’re right, in a way.

Will is going to savor her death. He’ll probably draw her torture out for another month or two if her organs don’t fail her any faster.

Once they have Lounds out of the way, they take a break.

Hannibal has something he wants to try on their next vacation.

* * *

Smoky blue eyes meet dark brown at a crowded intersection. He tries to speak to the man—clean-shaven, a little shy, fussing with the waistband of his tight leather pants—and frowns when his words don’t register.

The streetwalker realizes that he’s trying to catch his attention and turns around. He waggles his fingers invitingly. He slips a hundred dollars into the pocket on the man’s backside, spending a long moment appreciating the curvature he finds there.

It’s a matter of minutes before they wind up stumbling into a hotel of the escort’s choice. The curly-haired streetwalker won’t let their lips touch; he’s a strange one, but beautiful, certainly. His hands are talented, though. It makes up for the fact that he won’t allow kisses.

He rolls a condom onto his dick and sucks him off. They silently fight about it for a while—he’s a paying customer. If he wants to fuck a whore’s mouth raw, he should be allowed to, but the streetwalker insists, blue eyes stubborn and hard, determined to follow his own code.

He comes once, then pulls the streetwalker’s hair. “How much for your ass?”

The man holds out two fingers. _Two hundred._ He puts one bill into the man’s hand, then balks when the whore tilts his chin, scowling. _Two **hundred**, _he gestures, waving the currency in his customer’s face.

When he decides he’s had enough of the insolence, he pushes the streetwalker’s face into the bedsheets. He’ll have what he wants, and he’ll pay what he wants.

He gets startled by a foot jutting into his groin. When he’s ready to collapse to the floor in pain, preparing to lash out as soon as he can stand again, firm forearms come around his neck. “Hello,” a quiet voice says, liquid vice coating his every syllable. “My friend here isn’t fond of rape. In all actuality, he’s only dressed this way to lure you. Well,” the stranger drones, “his décor also suits my tastes, but I am not the intended viewing recipient today.”

The streetwalker says something to the stranger in a foreign language. The stranger looks down on him with disdain in response.

“My friend says that you have been very discourteous.” The stranger absently picks at his nails. “What, do you suppose, is to be done about that?”

He gulps, trepidation making him break into a cold sweat. “I didn’t mean any harm—he is your property, yes? I’ll pay.”

“Oh,” the other man murmurs, a dazzling smile on his face. “He is not, and never will be, something owned. He is like all feral things—untamed and hungry. May he feast upon your flesh and feel no remorse.”

Before he can yell for help, the streetwalker breaks his neck.

Will spits on the side of the road as they make their way to the shore, where they’ve docked their yacht. “I don’t understand how you did this for five years. I would’ve killed every one of my clients.”

“Not all of them are quite so boorish. However, rest assured; I have several of mine on my list.”

“Ha,” Will muses, kicking his feet up on the dash. Blood is still congealing in his hair. “Maybe I’d like it more if the clients were high-rollers. This shit’s for the birds.”

Hannibal laughs. “Fair enough. I’ll see what I can arrange.”

“What you can _arrange_ for today is a blowjob and a massage. Took three tries to nail the right perp. I deserve to be pampered.”

“Anything you like, dear,” Hannibal teases. They load the chest with the body onto the deck. Will glares at his husband.

“I’ll throw my ring into the ocean. Say I won’t.”

Hannibal laces their hands together, admiring the way the light dances across the silver for a moment before bringing Will’s hand down to kiss the band. “You won’t,” he whispers. Will can almost smell the coppery tang of blood on his breath. “Because you love to wear my name on your skin.”

Their initials are engraved on the inside because Hannibal is a self-congratulatory narcissist. “I would,” Will promises, “if only to prove that I could.”

_Do it, then,_ Hannibal gestures, challenging Will with his gaze. Will follows through, chucking the piece of metal that probably cost a fortune into the clutches of the sea, never to be found again. Hannibal follows suit. Reciprocity.

They kiss each other like the world is going to end if they don’t.

Before sinking to his knees, Hannibal pulls back a bit, pushing stray curls out of Will’s eyes. “I love you, Will. So much so that I would let you ruin me.”

“You’ve already ruined me,” Will whispers, caressing Hannibal’s skull as the man unzips Will’s trousers with his teeth, exhaling against the cloth of his boxers. “You’re replacing those, by the way.”

“I never would have guessed,” Hannibal muses, and before Will can come up with a clever retort to that, he’s getting his dick sucked by a cannibal.

It’s beautiful, like standing at the edge of a precipice.

All he has to do is let Hannibal’s tongue work his shaft and let go.

Later on, they will eat the innards of a serial rapist and abuser, delighting in each other’s violence.

Their love is a raging fire, engulfing everyone in their path as they pass. This life is everything he never knew he needed—truly, madly, deeply.

“I love you.” He whispers the words as Hannibal begins to fall asleep. He can’t bear to do it in broad daylight; it would make their absurd reality begin to feel like a dream.

_Who knew all you needed was an escort to show you the way?_

Standing there, bathing in blood alongside Hannibal with only the moon as their witness, Will has never felt so alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks everybody for joining me on this ride! i hope you enjoyed it til the end, and have a wonderful day!! ♡♡♡
> 
> ♡[my tumblr](https://quillifer.tumblr.com/)♡


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